


Schrodinger's Adolescent

by Theplanetprince



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Bisexual Jazz, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Dialogue Heavy, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Enemies to Friends, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, Gay Dash, If no one is going to capitalize on the queer coding of this show I AM, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Language, Miscommunication, One-Sided Attraction, Opposites Attract, Redemption, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trauma, dumbass/dumbass, swagger bishie, teddy ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 47,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theplanetprince/pseuds/Theplanetprince
Summary: "It was these moments- when the world stopped burning and began turning once again. Where he could just let the air fully extend his lungs despite not needing to breathe."AKA, I give Butch Hartman psychic Damage.Danny Fenton desperately wants to be normal. Sometimes you have to redefine what normal means. After becoming increasingly paranoid from trauma resulting from Reality Trip, Danny may have outed himself as the Phantom to his bully Dash Baxter. Though what may surprise him is just how much Dash cares about the human underneath.
Relationships: Dash Baxter/Danny Fenton
Comments: 111
Kudos: 265





	1. Kiss, Marry, Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Literally, I just wrote this bc this tag needs some MF content that isn't porn I SWEAR. I also just wanted to write something I knew Butch Hartman would fucking loath. Stop queer coding your bully characters because that's how you end up with me.

"-I'm just saying Danny, marry, kiss, murder: Kwan, Dash, and Dale." Tucker leaned against the bleachers, spreading his legs out and slouching. He dug his hand into the paper bag sitting between both of them.

Danny gave his friend a side glance, before taking a bite out his double meaty fatty bacon melt from the Nasty Burger," Okay but why are my choices all sharing one brain cell, and they're all suspiciously on the football team?"

Tuck shrugged gesturing to the field," Because we've already exhausted this game with all possible cheerleader combinations."

"Can I judge them based on how hard they punch?" The ghost asked facetiously.

"I mean you aren't positively falling for Kwan's passivity?" Tucker said while lacing his fingers together in mock swoon, before rolling his eyes.

"Honestly I wouldn't laugh Tucker," Danny snorted," You've become a lot more flexible with your sexuality after that spat with Hotep Ra."

"Puh-lease, Daniel," Foley attempted to defend himself," you wouldn't understand if you had a-a big muscular dude at your beck and call."

"Who looked like a missing member of the Village People," Fenton quipped while tonguing a piece of onions trapped between his molars.

It had been a while that Danny could live through those highly fantasized idyllic teen years that he always saw glorified in John Hughes' movies. It wasn't like he was missing out on any adventures of his own- he just wanted something of the less life-threatening variety. The mundane drama that most fresh-man experienced, like winter formal jitters- or homecoming games… prom court- he craved any moment of normalcy he could achieve. When Danny was younger he was waiting for his life to begin, it was just a shame that it was over before it really started. Like a radio edit of your favorite song they always seem to cut it at the best part.

The sun at his back, the spring wind that was quietly turning to stagnant summer heat. It was something he wanted to feel again. Where he didn't act like being half-dead was anything to fear. Much like the astroturf on the field, his body more served as a symbol that he was indeed still here but no longer really... organic. Moments that didn't feel like they could be snatched away. It wasn't those big keg ragers that he saw in Animal House that he was looking forward to anymore. It was these moments- when the world stopped burning and began turning once again. Where he could just let the air fully extend his lungs despite not needing to breathe. Where he could just be Danny Fenton, himself.

"Hush," Tucker shot back," Pick your man meat."

Choking both on his burger and his laughter," Why are you like this? Do you need for me to explain to you just how wrong that sounds?"

"You're stalling."

"Oh my god, you're impossible," Danny took a sip of his large soda that he had been sharing with his friend, he cleared his throat," Uh jeez, none of them are real winners…"

Tucker raised an eyebrow.

"Okay… okay gun to my head: I would murder Dale without question," Fenton pointed him out of the flock of football players wearing the Casper high Crow uniforms, he was the lanky tight-end.

Tucker seemed to fold in on himself with abrupt laughter, either cracking up at the way Danny phrased it or the fact that Dale seemed so innocuous compared to the other choices. The lack of restraint or mercy was hysterical," Why- wh-what did Dale ever do to you?"

"Oh nothing," Danny admitted resting his back into the bench while polishing his nails off on his shirt," but I think I could kill him and get away with it. I mean think about it- does anyone ever really notice when Dale is or isn't around?"

"You got a sick mind Fenton," Foley noted, but sat up balling his fists excitedly," but I love it. Let's see is it going to be Mr. Kwan Fenton or Mr. Dash Fenton?"

"God," Danny exclaimed his mind generating a horrifying reality of Kwan or Dash in a white tux paired with a shimmery sheer veil," If I'm lucky I'll be a widower and a nice healthy life insurance policy off of one of their hides to invest in your future start-up company."

"Aw, I'm flattered you include me in your hypothetical murder plots." He meant that genuinely, Tucker was honestly happy to be included in anything.

"Hey, hey I didn't say it was murder- more than likely it would be an unfortunate accident like uhhh…" Danny paused in thought,"... a totally legit lawnmower malfunction."

"You've been hanging around Sam too much."

Fenton plucked a few fries from the bottom of the bag, the very stench of cooked beef made Sam nauseous. Often Danny saved the comfort food sessions for just Tucker, "Is it that obvious?"

"Still, either way, you have to exchange vows with one of those dim bulbs." Tucker removed a digital camera from his bag and began to take some snapshots of the cheerleaders performing a trio of high-v jumps.

"Crap, you're right." Danny rolled his eyes," I can see myself falling in love with Kwan then entering into a boring marriage and then putting arsenic in his jello." The sharp sound of crumping his burger wrapper and foil cut through the dull hubbub from the field.

Fenton still wondered if this technically qualified as marry, kiss, murder if he wanted to murder all of his options," Kwan's sweet like a kitten he wouldn't know what hit him."

"Okay, no," Foley elbowed Ghost in the chest," that is your mom talking."

"I was brought up around a lot of violent women, what can I say?" It wasn't a lie, it felt he was definitely the more passive one of his relationships, he was very nonconfrontational until it couldn't be avoided. Such as combat with ghosts.

Tucker scratched his hair through his beret, then his smile twisted into his cheek. He looked out to the field to see if he could spot the quarterback in question, "Ouch, that just leaves you tongue wrestling with Dash Baxter."

"It would be one kiss and then I'd put his corpse next to Dale and Kwan's in my mansion's suspiciously spacious backyard," Danny said chest deflating at the thought, he still thought his choices were well made.

"Wow, I didn't know Vlad was in vogue, or would it be called Vlannel?"

"Dude Shut up," Danny chuckled but pondered the thought," and it would be Vladdel, I'm pretty sure."

Tucker still reeling from the simple round had trouble articulating," I-I just can't b-believe you would kiss Dash Baxter out of all of them, your arch-nemesis!"

"Well firstly, it wouldn't have any romantic connotation to it." Fenton made an x motion with his fingers, almost disgusted with the thought," Second, I definitely couldn't imagine myself in a prolonged conversation let alone marriage with him."

"Thirdly 'arch-nemesis' is a bit of a stretch that would imply that I think about him a regular basis- honestly he's tied with the Box Ghost in terms of relevance- and lastly I think the whole orbit of the school would be thrown off kilter if anything were to happen to star quarterback: Dash Baxter."

"Yet somehow with all that logic, you are still a C student."

"Mostly because I have the responsibility of keeping the freeloading ghost population down, and I blow off studying to play stupid word games with you and watch the cheerleaders practice."

"Okay, I guess I would kill Dash-" Tucker punctuated the first choice with," Obviously."

"Seeing as you were sweet-talking about Kwan earlier-"

Foley interrupted, "Marry Kwan, and that leaves Dale to mack with."

"Really, Dale? Out of all our bullies, he's certainly lacking a… what do you call it- oh yeah, a personality."

"So now you're saying you'd make out with Dash because of his charm?" Tucker couldn't really follow that thought; that would be like subjecting himself to getting a chip clip to the nipple. Yeah, at first you're curious, but you know how nerve endings work.

Attempting to argue his position Danny pushed back on Tucker's choice pointing once again at Dale, "I mean I'd rather kiss Dash than Dale. I imagine kissing Dale I would have to do all the work y'know? I just feel like I should take the one I know would have experience for keeping the ladies satisfied."

"Now who's the gay one?" Tucker joked while lining up the frame to see if he could get a big candid group shot for the school's paper.

"Yeah, you got me, Tucker. Danny Fenton 'the Phantom' of Amity Park is actually a closeted homosexual." Danny sighed from his nose, sarcastically remarking," I think I heard that in the inquirer?" Danny rolled his eyes once more, turning around to the back of the bleachers to throw away his trash. Finding his footing he placed one foot leading upward to the closed snack bar.

Then all too suddenly his blood froze almost solid- it was as if his Ghost Sense had chilled his body. If his heart could still beat now seemed for it to come back, he thought he was going to faint- it was as if all the strength in his knees dropped and then floated as if he was mid-ghost.

A football player was standing at the top of the empty bleachers. He had heard something. He was just standing there staring at him. Not anyone else, just Danny. It was as if the rest of the field had fallen away. There was no one else right now except for him and this person who knew way more than he'd like. The large looming figure was blocking out the setting sun, drawing a shadow on Danny. He was just looking at him- just as frozen as he was.

That kid heard him talking about being the Phantom. He knew- he knew- that stranger knew.

Before Danny had the chance to go up and confront the football player, he took off! Running away from the field like they were also terrified. Losing a grip on his tangible form, Danny put his foot down on the bench only to fall completely through.

With a shot of adrenaline, his human half responded by solidifying itself once again causing Fenton to land on the ground, almost nearly collapsing from the fall.

"Danny!?" Tucker called out, hopping to his feet," Are you okay?"

The ghost grunted frustratedly, "Tucker…!"

"Sorry! Standard question!"

Danny yelled," Some jock heard me blabbing about being the Phantom I'm gonna try and head him off! Goddamit!" A fist hit the grass," Me and my stupid big mouth!"

"Is that really the best idea?!" Tucker exclaimed with equal volume, trying to cover Danny and draw attention to only himself.

"I don't have any others!" He picked himself up from the ground screaming up through the wooden slats vehemently. Now covered in dirt and grass stains he charged from under the structure. The silhouette of the football player was running on the concrete path leading back into the Casper High Gym- upon seeing the target Danny picked up his pace, each footfall landing harder as his hair flew in the wind. He sprinted without a plan- without real direction other than forward, after a burgundy jersey.

When he reached the parking lot he saw his portly English and homeroom teacher, Mr. Lancer. He had his jacket over his forearm carrying a superfluous black leather briefcase, he was bent over at an angle unlocking his car. Lancer poked his head up, trying to spread his fast expiring patience and tolerance for the students," Hello , where's the fire?"

Danny dodging the question with a dismissive,"heymrlancerhowareyou?ImfineIcan'ttalknowofftogostudyokaythanksbye!" without faltering in the slightest he performed a slide on the hood of Lancer's car. Still continuing his pursuit of the football player.

"GOOD BRAVE NEW WORLD, MR. FENTON I BETTER NOT SEE SO MUCH AS A CHEEK PRINT ON MY CAR."

So much for normal.


	2. Marshmallow Meteors

"I'm telling you, Danny, you are just overreacting. There is no way that dude thinks you're the phantom." Tucker lamented walking a defeated Ghost boy home.

Danny more or less wanted to wallow a bit in his panic to marinate— he didn't wish to rationalize or a purpose a solution. Begrudgingly Fenton pointed out, "I am so glad you helped, by the way."

"Dude, I just ate a double-triple bacon fat heart attack." He poked at his PDA, transferring his photos for the paper," I wouldn't be any help if I were in a food coma, would I?"

The only reply Danny could conjure up was a miffed nasal sigh.

"You're really overreacting on this one— just saying," He mumbled, realizing that it would do no good to point it out," Considering everything, he probably thought we just really wanted to get our freak on with some football players." Tucker offered with a half-hearted shrug.

"I just can't shake this feeling in my gut that he heard us the whole time," the ghost seethed, balling his fists in his pockets.

Foley countered," When have your gut feels been right, though? Like your instinct is a shoddy six-point-five-out-of-ten at best."

"You're so encouraging. You know that?"

"Just being real with you, dude." Once his file transfer was complete, Tucker glanced up from his screen, "When did we get into your neighborhood?"

"hopeless," Danny groaned," Honestly, sometimes it feels like I'm invisible to you guys. Like you really don't get it? You hear me, you see me, but you just don't—"

Holding up his hand— interrupting Danny's stream of complaints, Tucker finished, "I'm not… great with other people's feelings."

"... Tucker, I've been your friend, for what? Almost ten years? I think I know--"

"What I'm trying to say is that clearly this is bothering you, and you're obviously not going to let this go until it blows up in your face— so the least I can do is help-slash-humor you."

Fenton plucked at his backpack strap, "and how do you figure you can help me find this guy?"

Once again, Tucker's abilities were doubted— and his technology came to the rescue for man's hubris. He held up his gorgeous PDA," I took pictures of the cheer squad— and of the football team, I got the whole field from when we sat on the bleachers."

He adjusted his glasses smugly, "All I have to do is cross-reference this, to see which one of the football players are missing and… bingo blamo! We have our guy!"

"That's nice, Tucker," Danny remarked," but I didn't get a look at the number on the guy's jersey."

"Oh…"

"Yeah."

"... well, that only makes it a little more annoying— mostly because we have to talk to Ms Tetslaff."

exhaustedly Danny mused, "All the more wonderful!" He ran a hand through his jet black hair, "Mostly because I got a detention from her for breaking into the gym after school hours— and a detention from Lancer for skidding his car hood with my ass."

"Why didn't you just run around it?"

"I THOUGHT I COULD CATCH THE FOOTBALL PLAYER, TUCKER."

"YOU COULDN'T CATCH A HALFWAY DECENT GRADE ON THE PRESIDENTIAL FITNESS EXAM!"

* * *

Slamming the door to Fentonworks, he announced, "I'm home!"

Then all too suddenly, he noticed that all the lights in the house were off. It wasn't like his parents to be out. They don't have friends. Jazz being gone was normal. It was a part of the routine. She'd be off doing anything else but trying to 'enable' their parents' prejudice on ghosts. Danny couldn't blame her. After all, he was doing the same thing. The folks, on the other hand, didn't seem to want to leave their industrial-styled home.

His parents since they worked from home and had no identifiable traces of a social life, the only place Danny could picture his parents was at home. Their home, more specifically. Since Danny received his powers, this house was just a place that offered a brief eight-hour reprieve between getting his ass kicked and studying. Of course, there was food. When his mom managed to tear herself away from her work, he would then silently pick at a dry roast.

When his folks asked him how his day was, Danny would just nod, say some recycled excuse about how English was giving him difficulties. His dad would reply with how that makes sense since Danny had grown awfully quiet these days. His mom would ask about Sam; he’d say she's okay. Jazz would offer him softened understanding smiles from across the small table. It was encouragement for sticking it out. Some nights they were an almost average family. He was an almost normal son.

It was hard to go an hour without mention of ghosts. It was a reminder that acceptance wasn't an option. Which is why he couldn't risk letting that jock walk away from this.

Ghosts, Ghouls, and Poltergeists- Oh my.

Navigating the dark living room, Danny called once more," Did Vlad kidnap you guys again or what?"

Silence. Calm as a cadaver.

Fenton threw off his bag, the near twenty pounds of books bouncing off the couch cushions and landing onto the floor with a pronounced thud. He couldn't help but chuckle tensely while pulling at the skin around his eyes. Half expecting a stern scolding for throwing his bookbag, Danny took a moment to scan the upstairs balcony. No one said a word.

Since he was still full from his lunch with Tucker, maybe he could just get a headstart on a nap, call the whole day a wash.

Semi wanderingly, he tossed himself onto the couch. Arms folded behind his head as a pillow. The homework could be put off.

Resting his eyes, he began walking the tight-rope between consciousness. He knew he wasn't going to sleep well when he was supposed to. Fenton would be tossing and turning around the worst-case scenarios. Eventually, he would jump out the window, conducting his detective work. Might as well sneak a nap in the middle of the day.

That jock could walk away from this, while those awkward dinners were the only tether Danny had to his parents.

It was odd. As much as he felt himself twitching with anger at how they dismissed ghosts, Danny couldn't help but want his parents to like him. To like his alter ego. As if somehow love could be enough to conquer that divide. Danny sat through those dinners, despite how his skin crawled, because he loved his parents. He missed being what their kid felt like. Occasionally, he wouldn't refuse his dad patting his back or his mom wiping a crumb of food from his cheek.

Danny knew his parents were opaque with love, bursting at the seams with it. Still, he couldn't take the risk of jeopardizing this hollow life. He wasn't sure when it ran out. Fenton couldn't let some random kid who went to his school endanger it.

Love was defined by obligations. No matter how strange they were.

Light darted across his closed lids. Danny didn't bother stirring, either because he was for once too relaxed to care or lost in his thoughts. Muttering between two people and finally-

BANG!

Startled, he nearly phased through the couch. With a yelp, Danny only found himself rolled onto the floor. Just a heap of bones loosely attached to consciousness.

"Oh! Sorry sweetie, we didn't mean to scare you!" Mrs Fenton stooped down to make sure her son was okay.

Danny sat up from the floor, still baffled and dazed from his brief lapse of unconsiousness.

Mr Fenton was holding a string pulled confetti popper still emitting steam from its opened top. Danny's Dad ribbed, "Well, you shouldn't be sleeping on the couch anyway. It’ll throw off your circadian rhythm- but seeing as you're the birthday boy, I'll let it slide. Though remember, this couch is only reserved for me and my siestas."

"Huh?" The youngest Fenton scratched his probably bruised head.

"Dear, did you forget that it was your birthday?" Maddie sounded distraught behind her crimson goggles.

Danny felt that maybe he slept for longer than he initially planned. Had he really slept through his birthday? No one had reminded him-

He shrugged, "I- uh… I guess I've been working too hard. It totally just… slipped my mind."

He certainly didn't feel any older, just… tired. Perhaps they were synonyms.

Mr Fenton extended his barrel of a forearm towards his son, "All the better, last I talked to that Mr Lancer fella he had the impression that we're an illiterate lot."

Lifting him rather fast, Jack placed a still, barely awake Danny back onto the floor. Armed with what looked to be an instant printing camera, Jack got a snapshot before

His son could protest.

"My son doesn't need English. He’s a man of science! Shakespeare couldn't write a play where the leads communicated effectively for Pete's sake."

Daniel let slip a humblebrag, "I did get the highest on the physics exam."

A hard playful punch landed on Danny's shoulder, Mr Fenton praised, "Now that's how you get to Nasa, tiger!"

"Speaking of, " Maddie bounced on her heels excitedly, "I think that you'll find that your sheet cake is… out of this world."

Mrs. Fenton began eagerly shoving her son into the kitchen. Rubbing the pit of his elbow, Danny grinned, "aw, guys, you really didn't have to go through all the trouble."

Jasmine was over the cake, one finger in chocolate frosting while the other hand was still shaping words with a piping bag. She hovered an arm above the cake, "Hey, still decorating in here!"

"Decorating or eating my frosting?" Danny crossed his arms and cocked a brow.

"Hey, I came out of mom first; that means I get extra frosting. That's like- uh- an unspoken rule of sibling birthdays," She teased.

Maddie chuckled, "Well, that means we can take more photos for Dad's scrapbook. He loves those scalloping shears."

Danny rolled his eyes, "Honestly, it's a sickness."

Mrs Fenton then recalled a memory regarding how Jack almost got into a fistfight with the wedding photographer her father hired. He was so incompetent that the photographer didn't even bother to take off the lens cap. Jack had to do it all himself, and that's how he discovered a calling. This always prompted Danny to ask what the difference was a calling and a hobby. Jazz then chimed in how callings don't require talent.

They passed through the kitchen archway once more. Mrs Fenton placed Danny against the wall, "Let me get my measuring tape! Let's see how much you've grown! Don't move."

For a second, Danny analyzed the mark in the wood. He raised his hand to his head as steady as he could, he guided his hand toward the spot. Danny was still the same height. The result disheartened him. It wasn't so much he was looking forward to his 'changing body,’ but he could be stuck permanently as the pint-sized wonder twinkie. Despite feeling middle-aged business accountant exhausted, Danny still looked green enough to be kicked out of a pg-13 movie.

"Hey, mom! I don't think I've gotten any taller."

Madeline returned with the tape measurer, "for my sake, I hope you haven't; I want you to stay in my pocket forever." She pinched his cheek while unfolding the ruler.

The metal ruler warbled as Mrs Fenton dropped it to the floor, pressing her foot to pin it in place. She tutted, "five-foot-five… yeah, you're right. Well, your aunts were late bloomers. You probably get it from my side of the family. As well as your tolerance for alcohol made from toilet water."

"Uh, thanks, Mom?"

She dusted his hair of confetti, "We'll just flub it a little like I do with your father's scale. So you are now five-foot-seven."

Retracting her tape measurer, she patted her son's head before gradually stopping, "When was the last time we cut your hair? It feels like it's been a while since we've visited the barber, huh?"

"I kind of like the way it is now," Danny shrugged.

Jack flapped the photo waiting for it to develop, "Don't be afraid of the clean-cut look; if you're anything like your aunt Alicia, butcher the better."

"I know you can't see it because my goggles are on, but I'm rolling my eyes, Jack." Mrs Fenton placed her hand on her hip.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing, she has a rattail, and I admire her for it. If my hair weren’t thinning, I'd do it too." He got out his cartoonishly small container of rubber cement for the scrapbook.

"C'mon pop, can I see it before you stick in there with all the recital photos where I chipped my tooth?" Danny gestured to the setup, taking a seat next to his father, "Let us not forget when Jazz went through her Carl Jung phase."

"He was a hot psychologist in middle school, alright?!" Jasmine called out from the kitchen.

Mr Fenton cracked open the dusty stuffed tome, flipping to an empty page. He sped past, moving into the building. Jazz’s first steps; seemed to be a lot more thanksgiving photos, specifically thanksgiving pie photos.

Jack handed Danny the developing film, "I'll need your seal of approval on this before it goes in the Fenton-de-historia for all of time and even then longer."

Danny took his turn and began to air out the photo, "Chances are you got me while I was blinking."

"That's what makes it a candid my boy."

Jasmine approached from the dining room displaying in her arms a dark chocolate frosted yellow sheet cake, clusters of crispy rice and marshmallows making meteors, with white fondant letters that spelled out 'Danny Fenton: Starbound' with a big fifteen next to it. Star-shaped sprinkles shined against the brown frosting. She announced triumphantly, "Be proud. I used all of my artistic skill on this."

"It looks beautiful Jazzy!"

"Top notch, sweetie! Did you use the mold I put out?"

Jazz rolled her eyes, "Of course, mom. So are we going to eat in the dining room like civil people or out here in the living room like animals?"

Putting on their best puppy dog eyes Jack and Danny gave a pleading stare to Mrs Fenton.

"Alright- alright, let's be bad, let's have cake on the couch." Maddie said elatedly, "we can even watch that new Apollo Eleven documentary. I heard that they got that British guy to narrate."

Jazz followed to the table and set the cake down, pulling up the recliner, "So what should we sing?"

"nothing, preferably," Danny not so subtly jabbed.

Mr Fenton shook his son proudly, "he probably got enough of that from his friends today, right?"

He bluffed and said yes. However, he wondered if Tucker did actually remember. Or Sam? Danny was never big on birthdays but he never missed an opportunity to make himself the object of celebration. Tucker seemed preoccupied with taking photos for the paper, and Sam was protesting some tree being torn down. While Danny didn't get many opportunities to actually feel full of himself, his friends seemed to dig their heels in on letting him bask in adulation. Earned or not. He was unsure where that came from.

He found it very hypocritical that while he used his ghost powers for good, mostly because they would be wasted if he sat idly, his friends wouldn't allow him to celebrate. Or when he longed to be normal again they'd meet him with rolled eyes.

'You don't actually mean that, Danny.'

Tucker and Sam seemed perfectly content to forget that they witnessed him… die. Something that continues to haunt his afterlife, is some charming anecdote that they all share.

It wasn't that he didn't like his friends, but sometimes he found them lacking compassion or even just- recognition that they were the ones who encouraged him to mess around with his parents experiments. Especially Sam.

If he had anyone to talk to that wouldn't want to dissect him immediately or judge him for being selfish, he would. Wholeheartedly.

Maddie in her maternal command said,"Since I let us eat on the couch, I think one round of jolly good fellow is in order."

Jack fumbled around his pockets,"Shoot I left my lighter in the lab. Oh wait-" Mr Fenton removed the back-up propane blowtorch from the coffee table.

"Be careful around the marshmallows! I spent so much time googling how to do that!" Jasmine warned.

Danny patted her arm, "I don't mind a little browning on top."

"For he's a jolly good fellow," Maddie began.

Jazz hesitantly started the song, eyeing her father, and the next verse,"He's a jolly good fellow!"

Jack joined in for the final line while the girls held out the note as he lit the candles, "Which nobody can deny!"

Danny, only slightly embarrassed, blew out the flame.

"We sound great, we really should've joined the choir."

"Jack the church wouldn't let us come back after we tried to catch the moaning ghost in the confessional."

"Turns out it was father Johansen." Mr Fenton handed down the plates.

Jazz asked, "why was father Johansen moaning?"

"Uh…" Maddie began to cut the biggest piece of cake for Danny, "you'll find out when you're older, honey."

"So, how was your guys' day?" Danny tried to redirect.

His parents reported some of their findings from the ghost portal-- Something about a tax form that they needed to locate in the mess of papers in the lab: Jack says he's close to finally putting together that IKEA file cabinet. Upon Jazz mentioning that he really should be moving to digital-- he said CyberGhosts are the real threat. Jazz dropped the names of some anti-virus software.

Danny ate forkfuls of cake, not really caring that his parents were talking over the documentary. Just happy to be thought of at all. He pushed the negative thoughts just far enough out of reach as to not hurt himself with them.

Then the phone rang.


	3. Time Has Passed

Danny didn't seem to notice it, though his mother did. Prank calls, sadly, were a common phenomenon. While Jack got discouraged by them, Maddie seemed to relish the challenge for her debate skills. Madeline got up from her spot next to her husband. She took empty plates and forks still littered with crumbs on her trip to the kitchen.

"Hello, Fenton residence, Maddie Fenton speaking-" She politely added, "before you ask, we're not quacks, we're just eccentric."

"Oh, hello." She warmed to the speaker on the phone," Yes, I'm Jazz and Danny's mom, I don't believe we've met," Mrs Fenton giggled, "Oh right, you were that boy who came over for tutoring, yes now I remember."

At the mention of tutoring, Danny nudged his sister's leg, "Sounds like you have a return customer."

Jazz groaned, easing to the edge of her seat.

"We're sort of in the middle of a family evening," Mrs Fenton looked out to her kids but focused on Danny, "but I'm sure he won't mind."

"Danny, you have a friend on the line," She whisper-yelled.

Danny felt his brow furrow… all of his closest friends have his IM handle so he could talk to them on the computer. To circumvent anyone listening in on the conversation on the home phone.

"Uh," Was all the ghost boy could find to say in response.

Mrs Fenton leaned into the phone, nodding while writing something down on the calendar in the kitchen. She called out again, "He wants to know if you're free Saturday night?"

Jazz observed the obviously befuddled expression on her brother's face.

Danny quickly stood. Taking the phone from his mother, she stepped back and continued to load the plates into the sink.

He rather seriously asked, "Hello? Who is This?"

"... Uh, I-I'll see you Saturday!"

"Who is-" he attempted to press again.

He heard the clatter on the other end and then the beeping, which signaled an abrupt hangup.

Danny felt the phone limply hang in his hand. Breath escaped his body, but It didn’t return. He put the phone back on the set.

"Who was it?" Jazz stretched onto the couch, taking Danny's spot.

He muttered, "... Didn't say."

His mom, while uncorking a wine bottle for the grownups, said, "It's your little friend Dash- Dash Baxter he said."

"Dash isn't really my friend, mom," he sighed, "I'm not sure why he'd be calling me of all people."

"Dash called?" Jazz yelled into the kitchen.

"Honey, don't yell. We’re trying to watch a movie!" Maddie shouted back.

Jasmine retorted, "I wouldn't have to yell if you guys would just hurry up and get back here."

"Listen to your mother!" Jack cried out.

Maddie concluded, "Well, regardless, he seemed keen to take you out tomorrow to a movie."

"... why?" Danny looked at the darkened ceiling lights. Not asking his mother but any entity that happened to hear him. Why on earth did Dash call? Aside from occasionally tormenting each other in school, Danny hardly ever gave Dash any thought. Or anyone from school, for that matter. That is except for that-

Except for that… that jock- that jock that he chased after- that was him? Dash was that guy?!

Oh no.

Danny caught a flash of the jersey he thought he didn't get a close look at. It was four, the number seared into his frontal lobe, four! How could he forget that Dash's Jersey number is four! Agh! He didn't spend an afternoon throwing things at Dash from the bleachers just to forget that easily!

Maddie noticed her son looking paler and more distraught than usual. She wondered, "Should I have just told him that you were out?"

"Oh… no, it's fine. I just-- I was surprised, that's all." He thought about reaching out to Tucker to give him the update, but Danny wasn't in the mood to get totally blown off. Seriously what was Tucker going to think? Certainly not that Danny was acting rationally. Especially given after how Dash behaved the first time he found out Danny's secret. The first time…

The first time when Danny was outed in front of the whole town. And that stupid Dumpty Humpty concert. He still had nightmares about it. It couldn't be compared to anything. Just pure agonizing horror. He could hear the whispers, a few people cheering. Most were confused. Just as he was. It was a careless mistake that he had no desire to repeat. He feared large events like that ever since. If it was a bigger crowd than a bank on a busy Friday, Danny's hands started to shake. It wasn't so much that everyone else forgot, but he didn't. Of course, it never happened in this timeline. Though it still stayed with him. He had never been more terrified in a single moment—an ocean of faces gawking at him.

Jazz entered the kitchen to see what exactly was keeping her brother. If it was something that she could get to the bottom of. She noted the utterly vacant but despondency in Danny's face, "So what did Dash have to say?"

Still looking at the ceiling, cycling through the harrowing what-ifs, he shrugged, "I'll see you Saturday."

Jazz scowled curiously, "That's it?" She leaned against the doorway, "How did he say it?"

"I don't know-"

Maddie finally popped the top off the bottle of wine. Reminding the siblings that they weren't alone. Danny confessed discreetly, "That isn't what I'm worried about exactly."

Jazz whistled and stuck her thumb toward the garage. Danny nodded.

Maddie poured two glasses of wine for her and Jack, humming to herself. She sashayed back into the living room. Jazz pushed Danny through the garage door, "We're going to see if we can find some Sodas-!"

"Jazzy, be a peach and get your father a Root Beer!"

"Okay, pop!"

After closing the door, Jazz gave a performative perimeter check. Making sure the garage didn’t have any microphones or camera bugs in any of the corners. Danny attempted to collect himself, drawing in the colder uninsulated air. The pair of Fenton siblings had very intense heart-to-hearts in this garage. Other times it was trying to keep Danny from freaking out about his deception folding in on itself. Jazz was perhaps a little more into it than she'd like to admit. With their opposing academic lives, there was barely room for casual hangouts. Or anything of that nature. She often treated him like her first patient. He wasn't totally insulted by her thinking that.

Jasmine dusted her hands of dirt, satisfied with her findings, "Okay, little bro, what do I have to say, who do I have to say it to, and why is Dash involved?"

Danny took a deep breath in, "It… its legitimately so stupid, I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"Over Dash?"

"It's not about Dash," Danny threw up his arms," I don't know, just- I told Tucker about it, and he thought I was overreacting." A stiff laugh released from his chest, "Now, Dash is calling the house asking if he wants to be friends? What freakin' gorgeous coincidence there!"

Jazz took her brother by the shoulder, "Slow down, start from the beginning- walk me through it."

"Me and Tucker we're sitting around, and he was taking pictures for the paper- he asked me if he wanted to get a bite- and I was like 'yeah I mean my ghost sense hasn't gone off all day sure dude how about a bite'-"

Jazz furiously nodded her head while following it with, "Is this all necessary information?"

"I'm getting there, Jazz!" Danny exclaimed, taking a breath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I'm- I'm just not feeling well.” He continued slowly, "We got back from The Nasty Burger. The football players just started practice. We were eating and talking- we were both surprised that all the assholes in school seemed to be on the football team. We wondered what drew all of them to be on the football team together--"

"That's easy." Jazz concluded, "See, typically, those who crave social status and power go for jobs or hobbies where it's more likely to be awarded to them. Like cops."

"Psychology is fascinating," Danny agreed sarcastically.

"Anyway, I don't know how we got onto the topic, but Tucker was like 'Kiss Marry Kill,' Dash, Kwan, Dale."

Jazz made an exasperated face, "boys."

"Either way- we were talking-- I dropped being the phantom in conversation, and I turned around, and Dash was standing behind us! I ran after him to explain myself- but it's like he vanished!" He grumbled, "Now I have two detentions, one for breaking into the gym after school hours and the other for skidding Lancer's car with my ass."

"Wow," Jazz concluded. Trying to absorb what a non-story that was. She attempted to come off more sympathetic, of course, "Well- uh… what did you say exactly?"

"I was frustrated with Tucker because he kept poking holes in my hypothetical, so I was fed up, and I was like 'okay tucker you got me I, the Amity Park Phantom, declare myself as gay.' and then I turned around and-"

"Dash was standing right there…" Jazz tapped her chin. She investigated further, "Purely for contextual reasons, who did you say you would Kiss, Marry, Kill?"

"Why does that matter?" Danny failed to see the point; he hit his loosely clenched fist against the Fenton mobile.

Jazz pulled hair behind her ear, deciding that maybe the indirect approach didn't work on her brother, "Well, it sounds more like you're worried about Dash thinking you're… um… you're…"

Staring quizzically at his sister, he waited for her to get to the point.

"It just sounds like you're worried about Dash thinking you're gay?"

Danny felt his face warm-up for the first time in a year, "Are you- No! C'mon- Th- That's not what this is about!"

Jazz gave a surrendering motion, "Okay… okay, I just thought that- it was just a hypothetical- It's fine if you are. I don't care. I mean, you're cool with my girlfriend."

"... you have a girlfriend?!" Danny nearly fell over but quickly found his feet under him. He demanded, "when were you going to tell me?"

"You've met her like three times. Mom gave me a bisexual pride scarf for Christmas?"

"I… I guess I didn't notice?" he sullenly faltered, "... We should really hang out more, huh?" Danny semi-jokingly suggested.

"... Danny. I don't mean to keep beating a dead horse, but since our last encounter with Freak Show, you've been jumpier… you're so- so paranoid."

"I- Jazz, I almost lost everything I've been working--  _ so hard _ \-- to protect." He found himself choking through the sentence, "I couldn't lose you or- mom and dad. I mean… you know more than anyone the way they talk about ghosts."

Jazz agreed, so she hesitated in saying, "But Danny, they don't care. They love you for you. You heard it yourself; they’re proud of you."

Danny had been shackled down to the belief that he was so intrinsically unloveable as he was. Whether he was selfish, delusional, popular, a loser, a ghost, or if he was just a typical teenager. He couldn't imagine another reality despite seeing one himself first hand.

"I need you to have my back on this and tell me I'm not crazy."

Jazz chuckled, "You know I wouldn't throw that word around so casually."

"Jazz, please…"

She found her brother's blue eyes briefly under his hair. Jazz, much like how their father would, playfully punched his shoulder and reassured him, "You're the least crazy of us all."

"Whatever it is you're worried about, you can just playoff. That's how I would do it." Jazz told him softly, "When you go to hang out with Dash, tell him it was all a big misunderstanding."

She pulled out three sodas handing one to her brother, "Grape, right?"

"Thanks."

"That's what big sisters are for," Jazz gave a smile hoping to see his return, "Hiding your deepest darkest secrets."


	4. The Plural of Vinyl is Vinyl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a lot of people don't talk about Phantom Planet. Well they do-- but not in the way it reinforces Sam's characterization as a hypocrite and someone who values "individuality" over the individual which was featured in the season 2 episode "memory blank" if anything I get more upset over that episode then Phantom Planet. I feel like they really could have done something like an arc for Sam to address this conflict in her character. I think despite her arguments about keeping Danny a phantom are immature and shortsighted, I don't blame the character-- if that makes sense? I guess I blame the writers for not like-- doing anything with that. Which is a bummer. If anyone has ghost envy, its Sam IMO.
> 
> Regardless, I hope I didn't write her as being too mean or too ooc, bc that's the last thing I want.

He returned to the living room and for the rest of the evening, it passed painlessly as it could. They all finished the documentary uneventfully. Danny sat trying to keep himself from fidgeting. Trying to extract any moment of benign serenity he could. He wanted to let Tucker know his findings but out of risk of getting the brush off- he didn't. Against his better judgment, he finished his homework and achieved a fitful sleep. That was after staring into the blackness of his ceiling littered with green glowing star stickers.

Strangely enough, the most comforting thought he could conjure was the vast emptiness of space. Maybe if he left earth's orbit he could achieve peace. Be beyond his petty problems.

He sunk into his pillow and tried to pause the memories replaying.

Dash in the reality he remembered… he actually respected Danny or the very least the Phantom. He admired the Phantom for whatever reason. People had this inane sense to never identify themselves as the villain in the story. What the Phantom was to people he couldn't very well tell them differently. The Phantom meant different things to different people. Danny thought it was funny that someone like Dash needed to be empowered. The fact that Dash needed anything at all. As if life already didn't hand him everything Danny ever wanted for himself. To be liked was one thing. To be loathed but have the confidence to not even care- that was awe-inspiring.

Danny rolled to his side covering his ears. Praying that maybe Dash'll just forget. That this whole day was an exercise in traumatic paranoia. He desperately wished that it was his imagination getting the better of him. That it was all in his head. Though the dread he felt was unshakable. It clung to him.

The sun hit his hair. He found himself sitting on his mattress white-knuckling his blankets and balling them up. If Dash wanted to talk to him he was going to have to pry him off of his bed. He wasn't sure when he actually got up to get dressed and go about his weekend normally, but he sat still, trembling- not wanting to face the day at all. More than normal he had felt like this, more than he would actually confess to. He knew deep down people didn't start their mornings like this. Sitting, counting unnecessary breaths in their underwear, wanting to move but can't. Paralyzed. Not through lack of will but fear of moving.

He found the motivation to continue. Fenton couldn't tell you where it was.

Danny found his shirt and jeans. Floated through his house, and took the bus to the mall where Tucker and Sam were waiting for him. They each wanted to window shop for their specific items that the broke trio couldn't afford. Tucker didn't even seem to mention Danny's freak out yesterday to Sam. Cementing further that what happened was simply nothing. Danny didn't mention that he was hanging out with Dash later. It just didn't seem important.

The trio exited the oddity shop after Sam wanted to price check an art piece.

"I'm just saying Manson it's a little hypocritical that you're a vegan but love taxidermy." Tucker sipped on his walking soda.

"And you're a technophile and you own a Microsoft kin IE the worst piece of recreational technology anyone could ever own," Sam mocked his tone.

Tucker defended, "Actually there are people with extremely toned arms thanks to the shake weight who would like to speak with you."

"Taxidermy is a treasured historical part of the goth aesthetic, and I only do insects," Sam protested.

"Bugs have feelings, just the same as any cow does Manson."

"Okay," Sam said, her voice raising an octave, "maybe you'll think about that the next time you ask me to get a spider in your bathroom for you, you big wuss."

"I'm perfectly aware of my own contradictions- I'm just saying you're so against me and Danny owning matching leather boots," Foley didn't mention his cowboy phase often, "but you can get a rare bug in a jar?"

Sam spun on her heel, "The Moroccan lightning opal hawk-moth isn't just some rare bug in a jar." She pressed a finger into Tucker's chest, "it's a symbol of bad luck, misfortune, death, and evil- I have to have it for my collection. If someone else buys it before me- ugh I just don't think I'll ever recover."

Danny found himself pushing past his friends, "Don't you think that we have enough stacked against us without the help of a freaky death omen?"

"It's about the power of belief, dude," She had pulled out her superstitions book, flipping to the page of cultural symbols, "The more you believe in something the stronger power it has on you, that's common sense."

Walking backward Danny playfully countered, "I dunno Sam I believe pretty strongly in gravity and I'm not getting any heavier-"

Fenton's back landed against something sturdy. He looked up and then ultimately wished he hadn't.

He looked up to see the red of his school's letterman jackets. He nearly jumped six feet out of his skin and quickly turned around to apologize and prepare for a barrage of insults. Sam and Tucker despite not having the same history with bullies that Danny did weren't spared much at school, the pair of them equally hesitated.

The figure in the red Casper high sport coat was none other than the cream of the crop, Dash Baxter. The person Danny least wanted to see.

However, instead of the normal snide smirk he always seemed to be affixed to his face, Dash appeared softer. He grinned as if talking to Kwan or any of his other A-list pals. The warmth that radiated off of Dash in this one moment was enough to make Danny forget what being cold ever felt like.

Dash, while holding a bag from some designer store he could afford to shop at, he gave the trio finger guns, "Hey if it isn't my favorite freaks n' geeks."

"He-hey Dash?" Tucker stuttered out, perplexed.

"Foley, right? I heard you're working with the paper now?"

Tucker, regretting making himself a target confirmed, "Uh- yeah… why?"

"Well, I just thought I could set up a few photo ops with me and the guys so you don't have to get bleacher shots all the time." Baxter wiped his nose with his thumb, something he did around his friends on the field when he thought he said something particularly clever, "Y'know vary up the print?"

Tucker gave a distressed glance to his friends before he conferred," Uh, sure I can shoot you my IM information and we can hammer out some dates."

"Definitely want you taking the shot when we bring home the trophy this season, my man- up top!" Dash quickly and forcefully slapped Tucker a high-five which Tucker found himself reflexively returning.

He pointed to Sam, "Oh shoot that reminds me, Sam?"

Startling at the sound of her own name she grimaced, "Yes?"

"I found these old vinyls from a band in the 60s called… uh… Coven? I think- yeah Coven sounds right? Anyway, They were apparently like the OG for their time and I don't know if you would be interested but I can let you borrow them."

Sam cocked her head, "Coven like- Jinx Dawson's Coven? Holy- Yeah def- I would be very interested in- uh… yeah that would be… cool," She attempted to remain stoic, though her eyes had dilated so much they could've been mistaken for twin black holes.

Dash suddenly clapped a hand onto Danny's shoulder, causing him to jump again- a chill like his ghost sense had gone off despite feeling so- warm. Dash reminded," I'll catch you later tonight around say seven-thirty? The drive-in is showing a puppet master marathon."

Just as quickly as he appeared, Dash checked his watch and sauntered off calling out, "Later dweebs!"

Silence hung over the trio for a brief moment as they watched his blond flat head disappear into the crowd.

Sam was the first to demand, "What the hell was that?!"

"Did he take a concussion at practice yesterday and we didn't see it?!" Tucker pulled at his beret. He quietly assessed," I've never felt both more treasured and insulted…"

"How did he know or care who Jinx FREAKIN' Dawson is?" Sam began rubbing her temples, "Was he reading my mind?"

Danny corrected, "I don't think he knows who Jinx Dawson is- I just think he had something that he thought you would like?"

"Why does he suddenly care what I think of him?" She bit her purple polished thumbnail.

Tucker took a long sip from his drink before asking," Or me for that matter? I accidentally threw up in his pool house. Wait-" Foley stared at Danny.

"What?"

"Why is he taking you to the drive-in?" Tucker suspiciously glowered at his best friend.

Danny gave an update to the story as we've come to know it. Including the part where Dash called in the middle of his birthday- thing with his parents. Dash was the football player that heard Danny and Tucker messing around.

"So Dash… knows?" Sam found a bench by the oddity shop.

"I don't know what he knows!" Danny huffed, crossing his arms, "We haven't exactly had a long conversation since he seems to be avoiding talking to me at every turn!" He ran a hand through his hair, "He barely let me get a word in on the phone, he just assumed- I wanted to go to the movies with him today."

Tucker asserted, "Look, whatever he thinks he knows it can't be good for us."

"Oh-ho-oh! So now it's an 'us'?" Danny crinkled his nose, snarling," You seemed perfectly content letting me think that I was overreacting."

"Well- I thought you were-" Tucker sat on the edge of a fake potted plant," I'm- I… I'm sorry. I didn't actually think there would be any consequences to this."

Sam uttered out, "I'm sorry too."

"Huh?"

"We… well, we forgot your birthday. And that's pretty crappy. I'm sorry." Sam glared at the floor not wanting to add volume to her guilt, " I guess I just thought you… stopped."

"Stopped what?" Danny was becoming annoyed that they kept switching gears.

"I dunno, aging?" Sam answered, "You haven't really changed since the accident."

Danny sighed, "Look, it… it felt pretty crappy in the moment but I'm over it. I don't care that you guys forgot. I-I don't know how to feel about this. The Dash situation. I don't- if he knows… who does that really hurt?"

"I hate being the voice of reason at the best of times," Tucker idly picked at the plastic leaf around his eyeline, "but it hurts you, obviously!"

"I don't know if it's that simple, Jazz made this really good point last night-"

"Jazz the sister you accidentally outed yourself in front of," Sam clarified.

Danny felt his jaw shift, "You guys can be worse than the A-listers sometimes- you know that? It's my secret and shouldn't it be my responsibility to know who knows and who doesn't? It's not like I can suddenly switch it off! I don't know why you think my secret identity is some kind of exclusive club only you guys are a part of but- I can't do this anymore. I can barely sleep, I'm exhausted all the time, I'm the only one around the clock consistently doing the work- I'm the only one with this burden."

“You weren’t the only one who was affected,” Sam argued.

Eyelid twitching. _**Were they recalling the same event?**_

“It certainly feels that way! But if you guys start your day floating six inches off your mattress-- I’ll let you borrow my weighted blanket.” Danny shoved his hands into his pockets, “Screw this, I’m going home.” 

She continued to berate Danny like he couldn't figure out that he messed up. Sam shoved him, "Good! Maybe then you can figure out your priorities! If you need us we'll be here in the world we actually live in."

Danny chuckled, "I stopped living in that world a long time ago." He wandered off towards the exit to wait for the next bus.

Sam sat back down on the bench heavily deliberating how that could've gone better. Her hands folded over her mouth, not in regret, but sorrow.

Tucker grumbled, "Is it too late to get belated birthday cake cookies at the cookie factory?"


	5. The W Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing the beta with my editor and my partner and at one point they asked me, "are you writing Danny as both gay and homophobic?" 
> 
> I said, "yes of course."

The bus back to his neighborhood was uneventful. People crowded together in a metal tube, like sardines. All breathing the same air. He thought standing close to a window would alleviate the anxiety. It didn't. He tried to focus his gaze on the city that sped by though that proved hostile to his stomach. If Tucker were next to him, he would explain that it was about motion seen but not felt causing his stomach to lurch. That or his eyes filled with so much visual information by the time he got used to one setting he would have to process the next one.

Danny went over it again. Was he the problem? That he couldn't accept what he was? Accept and stop fighting for what he was before? As if that person never existed?

When his eyes could no longer focus on the blur of colors outside the bus all he could see was his shaking reflection. At the end of the day, he was stuck with himself. What a horrifying idea.

Why didn't he just fly? Why didn't he just make himself intangible and just fly over traffic?

Being a ghost did have its advantages, certainly? Danny had to do this for himself. He wasn't just some costumed superhero that Sam and Tucker were friends with. He was a person. People take public transit no matter how uncomfortable it was.

He couldn't even seem to find community amongst the dead. The ghosts regarded him just as big of a nuisance as he regarded them. Wasn't it- whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger?

It wasn't strength that got him here. He didn't understand what kept him alive. There was enough radiation inside him to kill mosquitoes on contact. What did he do in a past life? Who did he piss off? He… stopped growing. He's stunted in time. Stuck on the day that shouldn't have happened at all.

Arriving home, the youngest Fenton didn't greet anyone. He practically tore a path to his room and shut the door. Listening to music only reminded him he was angry. It didn't help Sam had picked out his music for him since she deemed him too 'helpless' to know what was good. It was just noise. He threw off his headphones, pressing his hands against his face. Was it wrong to wish for a ghost attack? Danny certainly could go a few rounds. Despite the pain and social toll it took, fighting is when he felt the most human. It made him feel something at least, for however briefly it did. After fervently checking the news for any sign of war waiting to be waged, Danny deflated into his desk chair. No such luck.

There was a series of heavy knocks before Danny's Father burst into his room. His wide orange frame barely fitting in the door frame.

Scrambling, Danny shifted tabs. Though there was still a bit of rattle to his voice when he spoke, "Ye-yeah? What's up Dad?"

Jack slightly backed out of the room, worried he was being 'overbearing' as his kids put it. He cleared his throat, "Sorry son, don't mean to interrupt your studying, but your friend is at the door."

"If it's Sam, please tell her to leave me alone," Danny pinched his tear ducts.

Jack blinked," Er- it's that blond kid who Jazzy teaches." He eased into Danny's room, "Is everything okay between you kids?"

That much time had passed? Just pacing around his room angrily? Right- Danny looked up at his father who's heart was often softer than his brain. He fibbed, "Uh… she… said the packers starting forward trade was a bad move?"

"That bitch."

"Whoa, Dad!" Danny might've gone too far, meddling with his dad's fantasy league.

Jack composed himself, "I'm sorry, but you have every right to be peeved at her. Missy doesn't know a good trade if it hit her on the head. Anyway, you probably shouldn't keep your friend waiting."

Danny wasn't exactly sure the protocol was going to the movies with your school bully. Was he supposed to get dressed up? Or would that be trying too hard? Normally, he would bring a sweater to the movies since they always blasted the theatre with enough air conditioning to kill the dinosaurs. Or would Dash make fun of how dorky it was to wear a knit sweater?

Wait-

Why does he care?

Danny did however bring an extra belt and double knotted his shoes with a sailor's knot he spent a hell of a time trying to tie. After another five minutes of giving himself a rehearsal of possible conversation outcomes, it took him a total of twelve minutes to force himself down the stairs.

"There you are Fenton," A voice called out to him. With the same phrase that seemed to follow him through school, usually proceeding a shove, insult, noogie, etcetera.

"I was worried you jumped out the window or somethin'." Dash had apparently been invited inside. He rather excitedly got up from the couch, maintaining his excellent posture.

Jazz had already taken an empty glass from Dash, "Yeah, I thought I was going to run out of iced tea."

Dash patted his own head, "Sorry, Jasmine."

"Oh don't worry about it," She dismissed,"Danny, are you sure you don't want to bring a jacket?"

The ghost boy squinted at Dash suspiciously, "Uh… I'm good, Jazz."

The sweater these days was just muscle memory, it's not like he actually needed it. He could barely tell the difference these days.

Dash insisted, "My car's heater is pretty strong."

Jazz gestured to Dash's arms, "Strong as you are? Thank you again, for helping move the fridge, by the way, That lost magnet was going to bug me forever."

"Ah, it's no big deal." Dash inched toward the door, steering Danny by the shoulders in the same direction.

"Oh- right, when is your guys' curfew? The marathon might go long…" Dash asked, again avoiding speaking to Danny directly for as long as possible for some reason.

Danny felt like he couldn't stare any harder at his sister. Though she seemed to take his silent plea in the opposite direction.

Jazz winked, "I won't tell if you won't."

Danny mouthed some obscenities at her before being shoved out the door. Which thankfully the oaf didn't see. Despite having a day to prepare for this conversation, he couldn't pick a place to start- and obviously, you can't talk during a movie. He figured if Dash was going to avoid it he was going to have to go elephant hunting. He took a deep breath in, "Dash, look I don't want you to go out of your way to…" Fenton opened his eyes, "Is that a convertible?"

Dash opened the passenger side door for Danny, "Uh yeah, my dad is a bit of a classic car guy, it's a cherry red 1959 Eldorado, I think anyway. I told my dad I was going to the drive-in so he let me borrow it and put the top down since the weather's been good-"

Okay, Fenton probably forgot how rich the A-list kids actually were. He was hesitant to touch the polished finish on the car out of fear that the car was probably worth more than his family's whole business.

"Wait, you can drive?" Danny cocked his head.

Dash pulled out his wallet which casually had hundreds stuffed into it. Walking around money, Danny figured. Dash pulled out a thick folded piece of paper, "Almost, but I promise I'll be super careful."

"Oh, right! You got held back a year." Danny slapped his forehead in time with the epiphany.

Bristling, Dash slid the card back into his wallet, "Uh- heh, yeah."

"Sorry-" Danny said, taking a seat in the car, "That came across… not like how I meant."

Dash's brow pinched closing Danny's door, "Nah, it's not like that's a secret or anything."

Watching him round the front of his car, Danny needed to focus up. Stupid shiny car- stupid pure leather wallet that made him feel like an orphan from Oliver freakin' Twist- Danny pipped up, "Uh, Dash speaking of secrets, we should probably-"

"Actually if it's all the same to you Dann-" He corrected, "Fenton."

Dash took his spot in the driver's seat, "I... We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. First and foremost, I kinda wanna apologize, I need to apologize."

Danny rolled his eyes, "Look, seriously, I don't want you to treat me differently because you feel obligated to. If you want to treat me better, I'd feel less weird if you treated everyone the same way."

"Right. I'm not trying to… I know everyone uses the cliche that they're going through something. But I was. And I figured it out. And I-" Dash looked at Danny before turning away pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt, "I just… want to be better, so I'll start by being better by you."

Starting the car, the engine turned over noisily. Not in a bad way but certainly not in a totally eco-friendly way.

"And honestly I'm kind of glad I'm not the only one going through something," Dash said under his breath.

Fenton couldn't figure out what he meant by that. Did Dash accidentally play with a chemistry kit and give himself superpowers? Danny snorted, yeah like Dash would know what to do with a chemistry kit that wasn't making slime. What could Dash possibly know about compartmentalizing and hiding parts of himself from friends and family?

"Oh- right sorry I didn't say it sooner, but, uh, happy birthday," Dash went to reach for Fenton's shoulder, but stopped short, probably thinking that it was a bit overly familiar.

"Uh, thanks?"

Danny noticed that Dash was going twelve, in a residential. He glared at the speedometer to confirm the snail's pace they were going. He wasn't kidding about being careful. Danny lifted his hand to suggest going faster, but then looked at how hard Dash was concentrating. He decided against it. He never got the impression that Dash would be a nervous driver.

"On the topic of saying sorries: I'm sorry I took so long. Are we gonna be late?" It was only polite to ask, he supposed.

Dash creened the car to a hard stop at the sign at the end of Danny's street. Causing both teens to launch forward, "Nope I factored it in. I figured if it took me half an hour to drive to school, and your house is about two more bus stops. So then forty-five minutes altogether. And you never arrive on time, because otherwise, you're late. I left my house about an hour ago."

"... It takes me like fifteen minutes to walk to your house and back," Danny stated as if that meant anything.

"It's the left turns that wig me out," Baxter admitted with a groan.

"Dash?"

"Y-yeah?"

"We've been at this stop sign for a while," Danny gestured to the rearview mirror, "Mrs Mcgillicuddy isn't long for this world, pal."

Dash hastily glanced over his shoulder to see no one behind him. He got a dry laugh from it, "Good one,"

He said and his shoulders untensed. He slouched. That was a rare sight. Rarer than a rabbit exposing its belly.

It was fascinating that Dash was bad at something. Granted Danny didn't know how to do it either but he bet he'd better at it. Which was saying a lot in comparison to the star quarterback.

Dash kept one hand on the wheel but kept touching his face with his other hand. He looked ill.

The pair of them sat in relative silence for the majority of the ride. Danny gathered that the radio might spook him even more.

He may not have had a lot of friends but this, this was weird. Right? Friends usually have something in common and go from there. Danny tried letting his Dad explain football to him, that was a dark day. What else did Dash do?

'Say how do you keep your knuckles from getting bruised when you hit people? I have the darndest time trying to get the swelling to go down.'

"Is something funny?" Dash turned his head slightly, still focused on the empty road ahead.

"Hm?" Fenton thought he had fallen asleep with his eyes open again,"Sorry I've been having a hard time sleeping, I'm a tad out of it."

"Yup, we are growing boys," The driver added, with a head bob.

That line landed hard In Danny's chest that he laughed until he felt tears pooling against his eyelids. Mostly because of its awkward delivery. Ten percent because Danny knew that it didn't apply to him anymore.

Dash gave a nose laugh while glancing away, "If you hadn't noticed, I'm not very good at this. What do you really say in this situation?"

"Not that," The ghost remarked. Danny then remembered they were supposed to see a horror movie, "So, are you one of those tough guys who watch horror movies for fun or one of the guys who thinks he's tough?"

"What's the difference?"

"I dunno, usually guys take girls to these things to like, because of… well y'know? I mean if anyone would know I think you'd know." Danny vaguely danced around the word 'kissing' as if the penalty of saying it aloud was too steep.

"Can't say I do know," Dash lied. Switching hands, he tried to hide the side of his face with his elbow, "I just picked something that thought you would like. It's kind of old, so I don't think it'll be too 'scary' if that's what you're concerned about, wimp."

"Hey- Easy with the W word, I'm still deciding whether or not I like you," Fenton joked, "Trust me, you've met Sam, she- well she would never admit it but the first time she watched…" he trailed off. How long did he and Dash actually know each other? Sure their bond wasn't Mariana trench deep but certainly, they had been around each other long enough to know something about each other. But Danny was coming up empty.

"Yeah, no offense, I don't think anyone is as tough as Sam." Baxter tried to keep whatever conversation between them alive, "So whatever it was it must've been pretty teri-"

"Actually it was The second Nutty Professor movie."

The car swerved. Dash was caught off guard by the monotone voice that seemed to cut through his. Would Danny feel Sam's wrath when they both finally cooled off? For sure. Though right now, it was hysterical.

Pulling up to the drive-in it appeared that the pair of them were the trailblazers. The lot had ten or so people. A projector towered over the gravel clearing, the sky was red but was making the transition to twilight.

"Sweet, we're early!" Dash announced triumphantly.

"Welcome to the Amity Park drive-in revival." The attendant sounded they would rather be anywhere else. They scoffed, "You big spenders here for the early bird special?"

Dash not even phased, held up two fingers, "Student prices will do. If they're available."

The attendant studied Danny for a moment before rasping, "Afraid I can't do that, bucko."

Before Danny could speak. Dash furrowed his brow, and adjusted in his seat defensively, "And why is that exactly?"

"Seeing as this movie is rated PG-13 and- like- he's ten." The box office attendant tapped the glass.

"Un-freaking-believable." Danny produced his Casper high ID, handing it to Dash, which Dash rather aggressively pressed against the box.

The attendant didn't seem totally convinced but congratulated the pair sarcastically, "Twenty-five-fifty."

Since Danny already had his wallet out he began to count out twelve singles-

"Nah." Baxter slid a fifty onto the attendant's counter, "I'll get tickets, you can get snacks."

He shrugged, whatever got him out of spending more money than he had to.


	6. The Amity Park Drive-In Revival Thanks You For Your Cooperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of vomiting and illness in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this is out of nowhere but when I was writing this story, I was thinking about bowling for soup. Arguably, they are the Guy Fieri of pop-punk, but 'Almost', and 'Where to begin', were huge inspirations for this story. I feel like those songs are probably Dash's perspective in this story.

The drive-in didn't make Danny as nervous he thought it would. Even when people did start to appear for the show. It was probably because the car had some modicum of privacy. That and watching Dash try to figure out the Drive-in's speaker was a good distraction. Though, he was unsure why Dash took them here of all places.

He figured Dash would ask him a bunch of ridiculous questions. How did it happen? Did his parents experiment on him? Did his parents know? Did it hurt when he transformed? Why did he keep it from everyone? Can you steal the rival school's mascot costume?

Just basic things that he had prepared to answer.

But there Dash was, fiddling with the speaker as if hearing the film was the biggest issue at the moment.

Danny pulled his knees to his chest, trying to get comfortable, "So, you don't want to ask me anything?"

Seeing as the pair were in another awkward silence, Dash jumped, not expecting the conversation. He dropped the cord to the speaker, and it rolled itself back into the mechanism. Baxter seemed flustered, "Ask you what?"

"Well, I figured you would want something from me," Danny prodded, "It's okay if you do have questions."

Dash scratched his cheek, "I guess I-" His voice cracked, "I have one question. If that's cool?"

"Go for it, chief."

"How did you know?"

Fenton thought about asking him to be more specific. How did he know he was a ghost…? How did he know he wanted to be a hero? Dash finally stopped sweating, and Danny didn't want to get him nervous again. He went on a limb and assumed he meant the first question.

Danny wasn't an expert by any means, but the first thing he remembered after waking up was puking.

A lot.

Sam and Tucker, after the incident, had felt his pulse. It was slow but strong. Though out of fear of getting in trouble with Danny's parents, they just put him back in his room. He didn't blame them; he couldn't blame them. There was no reason for them to believe that this was going to happen. Danny remembered getting up and fumbling to his bathroom- puking his guts out. There were flashes. He kept trying to stand but couldn't make his legs cooperate. He felt like he was melting.

Did you know that was one of the symptoms of frostbite? When your body goes beyond the point of no return, you'd never felt hotter.

Though, that wasn't when he knew he had died.

Dash noticed the agonizing silence they were both submerged in now because of him, "I mean… it's a stupid question. You don't have to answer." He mumbled, "We don't have to talk about it."

"We should." Danny found himself saying, just to say- anything.

In a surprising turn, Dash hastily agreed, "Okay." He adjusted in the driver's seat- though he realized he was still wearing his seatbelt.

Annoyed, Danny leaned over and clicked Dash out of his seat belt- Dash Yelped rather shrilly, causing Danny to back up towards his seat of the car.

"Uh… are you okay, Dash? Seriously, are you-"

"Yep! Yep, I'm good, I'm good. I'm breezy." He said as if he was reciting a pep rally cheer, hitting the edge of the steering wheel on a beat. Dash pressed his face in his hands, "I'm… great."

Clearly. Danny simply shook his head, weirdly amused. He wasn't sure how his bully would act at all, but this wasn't it. He figured at worst he'd blackmail him into doing favors; at best, Dash would begrudgingly tolerate him out of respect for his acts as the Phantom.

Was Dash afraid of him? Was that what this was? Considering how Danny, the first month he had his powers, did spend more time than necessary getting even with the jocks. Dash probably realized that Danny could do a lot more damage than just petty high school drama.

"I understand if you're scared of me, that's a totally norm-"

Dash clapped a hand down on Danny's shoulder. There was something about this time compared to when he herded Danny out of the way at school. It wasn't tight or forceful. It was almost comforting. Dash retracted his hand as if he made a mistake but continued, "Dude- no way, I'm not like- no- You're… You."

Danny smiled wearily, pretending he understood what he was trying to say.

"You're pretty…" He trailed off before clearing his throat, "Cool. You're pretty cool, Fenton."

"Sure?" Danny shrugged. He wasn't sure what Dash wanted. He had to have wanted something from him. Danny couldn't help but think that he wasn't living up to an expectation.

Missing some obvious signal.

Danny crossed his arms, trying to get comfortable before Dash freaked out again. He knew he was calling the kettle black, but Dash was a jumpy guy.

The projector finally started with the pre-movie adverts from local businesses, including one from Fentonworks. Danny rolled his eyes; he's gotta have a serious talk about mom's questionable use of the emergency credit card. Upon seeing the forty-something-foot tall ad, reminding him how he knew he died.

"I guess I knew after I had recovered from being sick. You remember, right? Or- I don't know if you ever noticed I was gone for a few weeks… I don't know." He sighed, "I got a good look at myself in my bathroom mirror. I must've been suffering from shock or denial… something. I looked at my reflection. I- I knew it was still me; I recognized myself. The longer I stared at that mirror, the more I realized there was something inside me I couldn't 'fix.'" Danny propped his face onto his fist, staring at the screen until the advertisement switched to the Nasty Burger. The morning after he was strong enough to eat again, his dad had been bleaching down ghost equipment in the kitchen. In an instant, he felt nauseous all over again. Danny had dropped a plate. Green dots were decorating the barrel of the weapon.

That's when he knew he died.

He blinked away an odd tear from his eye, feeling Dash looking at him. Fenton knew that was a downer of an answer, but it was honest.

"Sorry, I didn't like- I never answered your question." The ghost traced his finger along the window of the convertible

"Oh," Dash said because there was nothing he could say in its place.

Both of them looked forward. The ad switched to a motion graphic. A long scrawl of text on a bright and clashing background was accompanied by fast, up-tempo jazz music, played just loud enough that it compensated for not having the speaker plugged in. They took a moment to read it.

' _ **Hello Young Lovers! Whoever you are, we're glad the LOVEBUG caught up with you.'**_

There was a spiral wipe, and the text continued.

' _ **But… we must insist that you do not allow his bite to effect your conduct in this establishment.'**_

' _ **Excessive amounts of public affection will not be tolerated, ('nuff said?)'**_

The last part lingered for an uncomfortably long time while the piccolo in the jazz orchestra broke out into a solo. Dash began to laugh, strictly from his chest. As if the air was just trying to escape him. Danny assumed that Dash was reflecting on an anecdote of some kind.

' _ **The Amity Park Drive-In Revival Thanks you for your Cooperation!'**_

Dash rather unexpectedly popped the Driver's side door, "On that note, I'm gonna get snacks."

Chucking his wallet, Fenton beaned the quarterback in the back of the head, "Get some junior mints!" He called.

With Dash slowly leaving his sight, Danny slid into the driver's seat. He plucked and yanked the speaker cord from its pole; feeling the tension in the wire, he plugged it back into the device and then pressed the switch. White noise and static came through at first until the ghost adjusted the frequency knob and volume dial. With that, the speaker was finally producing sound. Relieved, Danny sat back in the pilot's seat- That had been bugging him.

Having a moment to himself finally, The ghost had a bit of clarity. What the hell was he doing? He was at the movies with a guy who tortured him from kindergarten to now. Somehow the quarterback had enough power to make him irritated without actively doing anything malicious. That's all Dash was at the end of the day, an irritation.

Every noogie, every uncreative nickname- it was only irritating —a temporary emotion for a temporary personality like Dash. In reality, the guy was ephemeral.

The A-listers were all capricious individuals on their own. But if Danny could set his watch by anything, it would be Dash going out of the way to make time for antagonizing him. Despite how little it affected Danny. His reactions gradually got less interesting to pan for though Dash kept panning away.

Before becoming the phantom, Dash more than likely was the biggest obstacle Danny had. But now? After seeing the ends of which ghosts and people alike would do just to bring themselves a modicum of joy, or power-? Danny couldn't help but find that when he returned to the 'real world,' he feared so much that it was deceptively shallow. Shallow but empty nonetheless. There were so many bigger issues than some dude in a dumb jacket that thought he was better than everyone else.

Fenton pondered on the idea of why Dash kept him around, involved in his routine despite being difficult to get a rise out of. Maybe Dash's biggest obstacle was himself.

For whatever reason, Dash had made time out of his debatably busy practice schedule, between several team sports, parties- for him. For someone, he barely had a class with.

Secret identity on the line or not, Baxter's first reaction was to apologize through some abstract gesture. There were probably some broken-hearted girls missing their homecoming king tonight.

He was having a better time than sitting home alone, if he was honest. Dash and his… quirks were helping distract Danny from that stupid fight with Sam.

Usually, when Sam and Danny waged war, Tucker was decisive in choosing who was right. Tucker picked a friend to hang around like a child of divorce. Then when Sam or Danny felt idiotic enough, they'd call a truce. The addition of Tucker picking Sam made Danny doubt he was doing the right thing. Danny had no admissible evidence to trust Dash other than- a gut feeling that was making him stay in the seat of the eldorado. A Gut feeling and spite.

When Tucker told him that he was jealous of the phantom, Danny wanted to slap him. Fenton wanted to scream in his face and tell him not to take what he had for granted. The first thing he missed was the pins and needles sensation when a limb fell asleep. It was something so innocuous and insignificant.

Sam's whole justice for the little guy spiel did not alleviate the absence of being human. They both had a habit of talking about Danny like he didn't have a say. Like talking around him, instead of to him. Suppose that was the part of being dead he was still getting used to.

Danny wasn't angry, but he was hollow. He couldn't decide which was more concerning.

Perhaps his friends did what they could to make the best out of the situation since they felt guilty. It was an awful day for them all. For all his complaining of not getting attention, Tucker still told him that he had nightmares of accidentally killing Danny.

"Hey, Fenton!"

The ghost glanced up to see Dash returning with two drinks, a large tub of popcorn, and a box of mints. Danny reached out to help Dash transition back to sitting. Baxter noted somewhat sarcastically, "You know? You look pretty slick in the driver's seat, dude."

"Thank you, that's what I was going for." Danny gestured to the speaker, "by the way; I figured it out."

Dash exclaimed a bit more sincerely, "Oh my god, No way! God, you friggin' genius."

"I'm kind of crappy with electronics," The quarterback sighed.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Fenton grabbed a few semi-popped popcorn kernels, ignoring the fully bloomed ones from the top of the bucket.

"You eat those?"

"Don't pretend that not-popped ones aren't delicious," Danny remarked, "Or do all those protein shakes fry your taste buds?"

"I don't drink that many! Most of this au naturel-"

Danny chuckled.

"Yeah- okay- laugh it up, bud." Dash gave him a playful nudge with his elbow.

Briefly, both of their hands brushed each other—the edges of their palms. Danny could hardly feel the warmth of food, clothes, only other people. Suppose that was his human sense. Danny couldn't explain it, but Dash's aura… his essence in this moment was interesting.

Suppose if he had to compare it to anything. It felt like stoking a fire pit. Something you had to tend to. One that could last if you knew what you were doing. A quiet fire that with every shift and pop, more of it was exposed to the open air. Maybe Baxter was always like this, and Danny had finally stuck around long enough to understand it. Fire has a way of scaring people at first.

Fenton certainly didn't see this in the guy when they were training for the fitness exam. He didn't see this guy when he was told that he had to drop three hundred bucks on a tacky tracksuit. When he arrived at a party, everyone dressed in their losers best, Danny only saw everyone making light of how poor he was. He didn't see this guy coming at all.

Dash hissed, retracting his hand from the popcorn, "dude, you made of ice or something?"

"Oh, sorry, my bad." Danny removed his hands and futilely tried to rub them together, using the friction to hold some kind of heat.

The quarterback frowned, "er- I- listen- I don't want you to feel sorry for, like," He grappled to find the phrasing, "-taking up space? You apologize for things you shouldn't, and that's my fault."

"You give yourself way too much credit, Dash," Danny dismissed, "I've been regretting taking up space since before I knew you."

Dash's fell face in concern.

"Uh… hah… anyway," The ghost attempted to segue, "Could I ask you an obvious question?"

"Shoot," Dash quipped.

"Why do you-?" Danny tried to find Dash's gaze, which was toward the screen. The light reflected, dyeing the sclera of his eyes an unnatural pale blue. Danny mumbled, "Why did you give me such a hard time?"

Dash looked everywhere except at Danny, "... Like I said I was- I was going through something. I know that's not really an answer. I know-"

"It's kind of a non-answer."

"You were always… _smarterthanme,_ " Baxter opened the box of mints, handing them to Danny.

"Say again?"

"Ugh… you were always smarter… than me."

"So?"

"So-! I-" The quarterback balked. He scrunched up his nose before facing Danny. Though when Dash saw Danny's face, he clammed up. Defensively he began to sip his drink.

"... Hey Dash," Fenton began, "In the interest of being honest with each other. I've always sucked at English."

"Fenton."

"What? I'm serious! I plagiarized Wikipedia and change a couple of words- I am bored to tears by Ernest Hemingway. I have no shame in that."

"Danny- get down!" Dash sunk low in the car, grabbing Danny by the collar, pulling him down below the windshield. Since one of them had the large body of a football player, they both couldn't fit in the space under the dashboard. The car shifted with the athlete's sudden action.

On the other hand, the ghost could feel the brake and the accelerator jab his torso. He also may have hit his head on the steering wheel on the way down. Silently, he thanked that the eldorado was parked. Otherwise, Fenton would've sent everything into the car in front of them.

Voices approached, "Dashie! I thought that was you!"

"Hey, Paulina," He greeted. Pushing himself back over to the driver's seat, he kept his feet propped up in the passenger's side. Playing it off like he had been sitting like that the whole time, "Sorry, I dropped a contact, I would've said something- but yknow."

She giggled, causing the other voices around her to gradually join in. Paulina suggested, "You know you should really wear those coke-bottle things for a gag."

"Hey dude, why are you here by yourself?" a masculine voice queried. Danny suspected it more than likely Kwan, by the naive cadence.

"Oh my god," Paulina sounded worried but in her backhanded way, "Dashie, that's so sad, the movies by your lonesome!"

"I've been telling you guys about this spot for ages, and you're surprised I spend a lot of time here?" Further concealing Danny in the foot space in the car. Dash leaned on the wheel, "I should be asking why you guys came here without inviting me."

"Kwan was supposed to tell- did Kwan not tell you? Oh my god- Kwan! Did you not want him to know what a big chicken you are?" Another female voice sharply interjected.

Kwan countered, "I would've mentioned it, but you left practice early." He appeared to be holding all the girls' bags, coats, and snacks like the walking doormat he was.

He added, "Star, if you wanted to go on a group date, then you should really ask the date yourself."

"Kwan! I can't believe you said that you jerk!" Star shoved him but bounced off because Kwan's build with the added mass, he had become a mountain. Star yelled and began to walk away, "I totally don't have a crush on Dash."

"What'd I say?" Kwan scratched his head, puzzled.

"Cabrón." Paulina put a hand on her hip and began to run her manicured lilac nails over her palm. A habit that emerged only when she became upset, "Kwan, you are so lucky you are cute because honey, you got nothin' upstairs." She exclaimed, "Nothin'!"

Paulina began to saunter off to the other side of the drive-in, calling out to Dash, "If you want to stop being a lonely loser, come find us, Dashie!"

Kwan defeatedly uttered, "What'd I say?!"

The group left as abruptly as they arrived. Loudly and rudely shouting at each other along the way, disturbing other patrons.

Dash slapped the console, "Coast is clear, Fenton."

Danny crawled back over to the passenger side, then Baxter placed his feet back in the driver's box. Fenton popped up and sat back down.

The ghost found himself wondering aloud, "You… didn't tell them?"

"Of course I didn't," Dash made sure all the snacks weren't spilled, and their drinks were kept up-right. He said it as though the question had never even occurred to him. Running a hand through his hair, Dash let go of a breath, "I- I know you didn't want me to find out to begin with, so- why would I tell anyone?"

"... I just thought that-"

"I wouldn't out you."


	7. ...You Thought it was Safe to go Back in the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Movies can be pretty powerful. In fact, my username is a reference to the B-movie "Prince of Space" from the 60s. Movies have a way of disarming us and making us let our guards down. That being said, Puppet Master isn't a romantic choice lmao, my other choice was Children of the Corn. I want to apologize for the short chapter but I wanted to at least share what was left of my creative drive with you all.

The words couldn’t force their way out of his mouth. He had to thank Dash. He thought he did, but no his mouth was just hanging open. He never thought he would be grateful to Dash. Fenton just blinked… he blinked with no intelligence behind it, utterly brain dead. Danny was speechless, “Dash-- I-” 

Baxter dismissed it casually, not thinking much of it. As if it was something he would do for anyone. Even for someone, he used to consider a pain. Dash had effortlessly shouldered the weight of Danny’s burden. He was strong. 

“Movie’s Startin’,” Dash hushed. 

Danny continued look to at the jock, still in utter confusion. Dash made such a non-deal about Danny being the phantom. Treating Danny better than the people he was actually friends with? He must have wanted something. He had to. There was no way he was this good naturally. Danny refused to believe it. Dash had been tying Danny’s feet together longer than he had been lacing up his own shoes. Pulling his hair, calling him names. Whatever Danny had, Dash wanted it, so what was so different now? 

It wasn’t like they were ever enemies. Visceral hate was something that required dedicated time. Danny never hated Dash, and clearly, that feeling was mutual. But Danny believed Dash had to have thought about him the same way. Not at all. So, what were they doing? 

They weren’t anything. It was a sudden and devastating thought. Danny felt his pulse spike-- which wasn’t normal; it shouldn’t have been! Was he panicking? His body was frozen in place, just staring at Dash, who was eating popcorn nonchalantly. He hopelessly just kept stealing glances at Dash, starving for an explanation. Nice things didn’t just happen to Danny-- 

The delicate violin score of the movie was punctuated with a croaking vocalization. It opened on an old man putting a varnish on a wooden dummy sealing in the paint on its devilish smile. The haunting music transitioned to a static laced ballroom tune. The man was surrounded by similarly eerie dolls covering the walls. The man held the dummy’s face in his hands, bringing it to life. The dummy’s face was divided into three horizontal blocks that began to clatter together and spun to display different emotions. 

The light from the projector bounced off the screen and reflected in the shine of the polished convertible. The glow clung to the audiences’ faces. Dash was concentrated but loosely so; more than likely, he had seen this one before. 

It was dark enough to make Fenton believe that he and Dash were the only two people that mattered. Dash wanted to keep Danny safe. When it should have been the other way around. 

Danny counted his breaths. He was safe. Overwhelmingly. If he repeated enough, it had to be true.

A blue wisp snaked its way out of Danny’s nose-- 

“No-- no, no…” Danny whispered, “ _Shit._ ” 

Baxter grabbed another handful of popcorn, “Yeah, I know, right? The stop-motion is so uncanny.” 

Danny smiled stiffly as not to worry him. Head on a swivel, Fenton scanned the cars. Thanks to darkened windows, he couldn’t glean anything. Nothing immediately jumped out as ghost activity. No screaming, nothing. He raised himself out of his seat and on top of the car door to get a better view. 

“What’re you doing up there, Fenton?” 

“I’m just trying to see something--” He automatically replied, harsh without meaning to be. Danny stared out into the blackness, counting cars. A gust of wind rattled the car-- causing Fenton to fidget. 

“You’re gonna catch your death,” Dash warned.

“Little too late for that, pal,” Danny muttered, squinting on the crowd of cars. 

The score had been ramping up in volume and speed-- apprehension forming-- then culminating with a piano strike the puppet maker shot himself, and his would-be assassins kick in his apartment door. He caught a glimpse at the blood on screen and shuddered-- a few in the audience gasped.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t an ideal film to watch during a ghost hunt. It had nothing to do that Danny’s tolerance for horror started, and ended at Piranha 3D, the fake blood looked like it had more sugar than the new recipe tomato soup. 

He chided-- not a ghost hunt. Continuing to scan all the rows for the faintest hint of disarray. A cardboard candy box knocked the back of his head. Danny periscoped to the car south of them-- 

“Down in front, pint-sized!” 

Danny bared his teeth. For once, he wanted a thank you for being a neurotic wreck on behalf of the worst town in the world. Baxter grabbed Danny’s hand, trying to lead him back into the vehicle, “You alright?” 

The contact was ginger as if Dash thought Danny was going to break. It was odd as it was direct. Saying that Dash grabbed him at all would’ve been an exaggeration. Dash covered Danny’s hand with his. In a moment, Dash could feel how defined, and boney Fenton’s hand was. How his hands and fingers were long and tapered-- yet his wrists were taut. 

“Uh-- Yeah, yeah I’m-- I thought I saw something.” Danny got back into the passenger’s chair.

Dash sat up, “If it’s about Kwan and Paulina, I seriously never thought in a million years they would actually come.” 

“It’s not them I’m worried about.” 

“I can take you home if you’d like…” He suggested, albeit disappointedly. 

“No. I’m-- I’m good.” Danny had enough of Dash’s best impression of an elderly driver for one night. Though the thought was tempting. Amity Park citizens were often just obstacles in a peeved ghost’s path trying to get Fenton. Maybe it could’ve been a smart move to separate himself from the crowd. Then again, the last thing was a spirit to get the bright idea to flip Dash’s car while they were on the street. 

The more Danny lingered on that thought; he fixated on the vision of a large crowd in hysterics. All trying to drive away at the same time, not having enough common sense to abandon their cars. 

Baxter prodded, “You don’t sound sure.” He ventured with equal parts teasing and some concern, “Is-- is this too scary for you?” 

He wasn't. Danny must’ve been more squirmy than he felt because he heard Dash’s keys jingling. Fenton squeezed Dash’s letterman sleeve-- “No-- Seriously, I’m having a great time.” 

Even in the film's low blue light, Danny could see a softened crooked smile etched onto Dash’s face. 

**_‘Yes, sir! You are gonna be a rich man! You are going to build a shopping mall! Yes, sir… you are gonna be a rich man.’_ **

**_‘Oh-- wow! Maybe I will marry him then.’_ **

The quarterback cleared his throat and-- went back to the movie.

Danny had been holding onto Baxter’s jacket longer than he intended to, and he released. Tossing back a few kernels, he prayed that it was just a phantom-phantom alarm. A misfire of nerves-- something. Like the false vibrations in a person’s leg while they expected a text. Could it have been out of tune? Maybe he was prone to emitting false signals when he was stressed? Maybe Fenton was so far in his own head that he expected something to come along and spoil-- 

“Hey Fenton, do you think this dog paid the cover charge?” Dash pointed over his door. 

Without thinking, Danny scooted to Dash’s side. Nearly crawling on top of his lap, Danny leaned off the driver’s side, and sure enough, there was a tiny green pitbull puppy with folded-over umber ears, munching on discarded snacks and licking ice cream wrappers. Not a good combo. While Cujo by himself was typically harmless, defeated by a game of fetch, letting him wander around unsupervised wasn’t a good idea. Valerie Grey Never let him forget that. The Phantom and that dog were wanted felons in one or possibly more states. Like most untrained dogs, Cujo tended to make trouble where it wasn’t originally. 

While forming a plan and coming up with hypotheticals, Fenton had effectively scrambled on top of Dash-- who was taking it surprisingly well, all things considered. 

“Wow-- you must really like-- you must really like-- uh-” Dash feasibly without a place to put his hands, “... d-dogs.” 

He Kept them pressed to his chest, uncomfortably. However, he didn’t appear to want to move Danny. 

“Er-- Sorry,” Fenton whispered, noticing they were garnering stares from other cars since their vehicle had been shifting around with their body weight nearly the whole time they were there. Danny shook his head, “It's-- uh… that’s a ghost dog.” 

Despite the darkness, the pair was probably the closest they’ve been outside gym class. Danny could see that he had the littlest mole stamped just below his hairline. Another one dotted on the apple of his left cheek. Baxter’s eyes --still saucers and the heat radiating off of him was disorienting-- his chest heaved, “No kidding?” 

“Yeah, I’ve seen him before,” Danny eased off but still kept close in case Cujo strayed off, “he’s not dangerous right now, but he can switch on a dime.” 

Dash raised a brow and snorted, “Wow, you think he and my mom would get along?” 

Fenton didn’t think to bring the thermos, “Gah-- I don’t have anything to catch him with!” He punched the dashboard. How could he have been so thick-headed? After dragging his fist back, Danny put his knuckles near his mouth. His icy breath soothed the already formed bruises on his hand from a previous Spectra encounter.

“Catch him? He doesn’t seem to be bothering anybody,” Dash observed the dog sloppily eat food that phased right through his stomach and back onto the grass. 

“I’m more worried about the ones who bother him.” 

The driver’s door opened once again. With little protest, Dash picked up Cujo, cradling him. Before Danny could process-- Dash boasted, “I’m great with dogs. Alive or dead.” 

That explained why the sight appeared so natural. The ghost dog barely fussed and began insistently sniffing Dash’s face and gave his cheek a tentative lick. Dash, on the other hand, was like Christmas in mid-April. 

“Okay, but Dash, he _really_ shouldn’t be outside of the ghost zone.” 

“The what?” 

Right-- he doesn’t know what that is. Danny was probably supposed to teach him that between the awkward pauses. Fenton urged, “We should probably get him back to my house.” 

Baxter rested the dog on his lap, stroking its fur, “He’s already asleep.” He furrowed his brow, “Do you think we could take him back after the first movie? he’s clearly not going anywhere soon... “ 

Danny figured he owed him that much since he did get the tickets. He crossed his arms, “Fine-- Fine-- right after okay-- I don’t want you to get hurt or anything.” 

Dash yawned, “It's almost like you care about me or something, Fenton, that’s cute.” He stretched, his arm slinging around the back car’s bench.

“Shut up,” 


	8. What a Twist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I would like to apologize for the initial quality of this chapter, I wrote this while my computer was dying and being stupid so I didn't have time to edit all the grammatical errors-- but I was way too excited to share this with you all!! I will fix it tomorrow, but agh!!
> 
> *All fixed!! Kinda-- It's still my same kind of wonky.

It was different to see Cujo at ease. It was unlike the dog to be this personable. Granted, he was passed out, but still. Danny wouldn’t say he’s an animal expert by any means, but he more so thought his enthusiasm more than made up the gap in knowledge. Cujo was expertly trained, through his tenacity made him difficult. Danny wondered if he dug his way out of the Ghost Zone again, which he thought he curbed out of the dog. 

He was toiling away-- forgetting that he came here to have fun. Or something resembling it. Superheroes don’t get days off. They don’t; he knew that. It was frustrating. Normally, when a ghost crashed an outing with his friends, they would shrug their shoulders and be equally annoyed. Dash, though, didn’t seem to really care. He appeared to be happy to be included, which was… interesting. 

The movie, despite its title, wasn’t a cheap knock-off of Child’s Play. It mostly consisted of psychics getting into haunted doll-related shenanigans and kicking nazi ass. There was one implied sex scene as per PG-13 movies, which were actually disguised R rated movies from the 1980s often had. The pair talked over the scene, pretending it wasn’t happening at all. 

“So, Mr Lancer, do you think he waxes his bald spot? You know to keep it shiny? Like when the sun hits straight on during third period-- I have to wear sunglasses.” 

“For sure, for sure…” Dash raised a brow, “So… wait, what grade did you get on your plagiarized essay of Old man and The Sea?”

Fenton pursed his lips like he totally wasn’t looking at the screen with his peripheral vision. He nodded in thought, “Uh… I think a C? Like seventy percent?” 

Halting mid drink, Dash chuckled, “that’s interesting.” 

“That it totally looks like he’s penetrating her belly button?” Danny said, cocking his head to confirm if that was indeed what he was supposed to interpret.

“What? No!” Baxter caught off guard, glanced at the screen briefly, and then shook his head like he just ate something disgusting, “I got a B minus.” 

Once the scene was over, Dash apologized profusely and had blocked out from the first time he watched the film. Danny thought they both handled about as maturely as two high schoolers could. Meaning they didn't. Cujo slept like a rock in Dash’s lap unbothered. He must’ve had quite an active day, Danny thought. Did dogs-- even ghost dogs ever work? 

The bright glow from the dog was only distracting when it dimmed unexpectedly. Danny stared at the specter as it was being absorbed into a shadow. A shadow crawled over Cujo onto Dash’s torso, up his neck before engulfing his face in the blackness. 

Two more wisps escaped from Danny’s throat-- 

The projector suddenly cut, and the speakers bursted with feedback. Everyone shielded their ears. The emergency overhead lights flooded the field. Dash kept his head on a swivel in case the A-listers came back to check on him. Danny, out of instinct, shrunk down, not wanting to be seen. He then realized he wasn’t in his ghost form. The back of his head found the seat, chiding himself. 

“Sorry about that, everyone; it appears we’re having some technical difficulties.” The lackadaisical theatre attendant that gave Danny a hard time spoke tiredly over the PA system. There was an immediate hesitance. Akin to a dry brush waiting for the worst to happen. The type of static in the air was restless. The citizens of Amity Park never bought an innocuous accident. They had grown uneasy at any sight of disarray like it was an omen of what was to come. There were shouts of discontentment, and people began to leave. Engines starting, anticipating catastrophe. 

Without warning-- the floodlights began to flicker until they exploded into sparks. Another voice came onto the PA, “Look alive, Amity Park-- Johnny is coming by to check ticket stubs-- Dark Shadow! Bring me that mutt!” 

The black mass formed a sharp edge cleaved itself into the car, splitting it half effortlessly-- as though it were nothing. Without hesitation, Danny shoved Dash away, pushing himself to the other edge of the vehicle. The squeal of metal being twisted and burned through hurt as much as the feedback. With his weight on one side, the passenger and driver’s sides tumbled over, completely severed from each other. A cloud of dust whipped around the debris. Onlookers screamed, and panic began to grip the crowd. Dark Shadow, much like Cujo, had zero attention span. It became enamored with the other cars in the crowd and dove under them, flipping them over with geysers of gravel and dirt. Danny barred his arms over his head momentarily when he hit the ground. He called out, “Dash, take the dog and get out of here!” 

Stunned, Dash replied, attempting to sound brave, “N-no way!” 

“I wasn’t asking!” Danny barked, “We need to split up-- I’ll meet you by the entrance!” 

“Danny, wait!” 

The ghost boy took advantage of the crowd running in all directions. He went against the grain of the fleeing audience; he bobbed and weaved through cars before they shot straight up into the air. It only motivated him to move faster. He could feel as people passed him knocking chunks out of his corporeal form, which he respawned as he needed. Crashing into the restroom door, Danny caught his breath before opening the door.

Here comes the hard part. He counted off, his voice now echoing off the walls. Danny’s throat caught slightly, “... Three… two-- I’m going ghost!” 

Two pale rings of light emerged from the center of his stomach, then passed over his body. They crackled like neon lights in need of replacement. In this form, his bones felt like they were melting, reminiscent of growing cramps before a growth spurt. Danny leapt through the ceiling of the restroom and back into the chaos. Now that he was above it, he had to form a plan-- Dark Shadow couldn’t stand brightness-- Johnny happened to be clever enough to destroy the overhead lights. 

What on Earth could Johnny want Cujo for? Regardless of the reasoning, having two huge figures turn the new drive-in into an arena for their grudge-match wasn’t ideal. Danny felt energy at the very skin of his hands-- he raised a finger to shoot a beam at Shadow-- 

It was at this point he remembered Vlad’s ability to make copies of himself. Danny didn’t have time even to entertain the idea of being competent with his powers. Thus far, every experiment with making copies of himself had resulted in more or fewer limbs than he usually had. If someone like Kwan could do it without much difficulty, Danny struggled to come up with an excuse. 

Danny was hesitant to take the shot and draw attention to himself-- Instead, the ghost boy elected to find the projection booth and use the environment against Johnny. Hearing the cries and screams of elitist Casper High snobs, Danny zipped to the still intact car Paulina Sanchez’s butler was trying to start. 

“Ghost boy! I knew you would come for me!” Paulina dramatically sighed in relief, draping her arms around the phantom’s neck from her seat in the convertible. A sign of affection he would gladly accept if the town's fate weren’t constantly in flux. He brushed her off, sitting her back down in the car. 

Star cried in tandem, “I knew you’d save us!” 

Floating to the driver, Danny ordered, “Sir, turn on your brights and use the flashlight on your phone to keep yourself safe.” He then gestured to the rest of the passengers in the car, “Stay put, the last thing we want is to cause a stampede-- all of you use your flashlights on the highest setting.” 

The A-listers complied with the directions, all removing their personal devices and turning on their lights. Kwan was the last, his hands shaking a bit too hard to get it right on the first try. He begged, “Phantom, you gotta find my buddy Dash. He was out there by himself, and I--” 

“He’s okay,” Danny assured, “Before that ghost thrashes more cars, tell everyone to use their flashlights.” 

The linebacker didn’t look anymore at ease. 

He gave them a trademark cocky grin before leaving them, which was getting harder to put on. Danny departed, bulleting toward the projector booth.

Phasing through the glass, he found the incapacitated box office attendant. However, Danny couldn’t tell if they were beaten up or fell asleep on their own. To be certain, he held his hand in front of their mouth, feeling their breath from their nose. You couldn’t be too careful with a psychotic idiot like the ghost biker. 

“Alright, Johnny, before today, I thought you were above inciting panic and yelling fire in a crowded theater,” Danny uttered. 

In a blur of motion, Johnny wrapped his arm around the phantom’s throat. The older man popped his switchblade, “Hey-- hey, if it isn’t my favorite wonderbread paragon. Didn’t expect to see you at this chick flick.” 

Danny rolled his eyes, without exerting much force-- Fenton shirked the spirit off, grabbing his upper bicep and throwing him into the wall. Thank you, women’s self-defense boot camp DVD that mom regifted. 

“I’m giving you the chance to walk away here.” 

Wiping the spit from the corner of his mouth, Johnny replied, “I’m not leaving here without that dog.” 

Despite wanting to ask why-- Fenton knew that asking wouldn’t necessarily stop him. Danny instead crossed his arms sternly, “I’m sure this is your newest attempt to get Kitty to forgive you for cheating on her-- but could you leave my town out of it for once?!” 

Johnny spat and rolled his shoulder, “like a friend of Dorothy would know what it's like-- Don’t forget who your senior is before you start to lecture squirt.” 

Friend of…? Danny must’ve looked confused because Thirteen guffawed, “Oh shit-- are you-- you’re not bent? You certainly look the part. My bad.” 

“Look, Johnny, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” The Phantom admitted before balling his fists together, “But I can guarantee you, you’re the one who’s going to be bent into a new shape if you don’t call off your shadow.” 

Shrugging, thirteen said, “My hands are tied, kid.” 

Danny tugged at his eyebags, “Of course they are.”

Bubbles of green energy absorbed his hands; he rattled off two blasts. Nailing Johnny Thirteen’s shoulders and further embedding him into the wall. Spending a crack into the drywall and up to the ceiling. 

Johnny snapped his fingers, causing parts of the ceiling to come crumbling down. Danny dodged, jumping back. 

The older ghost growled, “Step on a crack, I’ll snap you in half--!” 

“That doesn’t even make any sense!” Danny shot at the ceiling pieces seeking to hit him.

Tackling the phantom, Thirteen slammed his junior to the control board for the projector. Pinning Danny’s hands above his head. He panted, “so how's the sister?” 

Pressing his shoes into Johnny’s chest, the phantom found himself floating on his back for a moment before launching himself into Johnny, swinging for his face. The elder ducked, then grasped Danny’s fist. Phantom punched with his left, and Johnny trapped that arm too. They pushed on their opponents with equal pressure grappling with each other. 

Remembering he can shoot beams from his eyes, Danny shot through Johnny’s chest since it was at his eye level. Thirteen grabbed his pecs, hissing, “DUDE NOT COOL, MY NIPPLES ARE OFF LIMITS!” 

Pulling the greaser down by the ear, Danny yelled, "Guess what? When you ruin my night, I have no limits!" After throwing Johnny back onto the control panel, the projector whirred back to life-- a bright blinding white light burst from behind Danny, projecting a forty-foot rainbow test screen. Observing the remaining cars with their brights on full blast, creating an unnavigable terrain for Shadow, the beast cried with pain and anguish as it was caught by the corner of the projection screen.

“Johnny, I don’t recommend this to everyone, but maybe you should watch Maury Povitch-- maybe you’d learn something.” Phantom threw the older ghost through the window. The biker phased through the glass before pulling back and flying off into the night without another word. Next time, when Danny was prepared, it would be on sight. The phantom leapt through the same window and sped past cheering choir-- 

He called out, “Dash! Cujo!” cupping his hands around his mouth. He repeated the same names-- Though quickly Danny found himself overwhelmed by bodies of people trying to gain his attention and sing his praises for his latest deed. Raising his head above the swath-- in the distance, he could see a red jacket on top of the wreckage of what used to be a hell of a car. He was mouthing something Danny couldn’t glean from the space between them. Strangely enough, Dash always looked at the Phantom. From the corner of his eye, Danny could usually pick the jock out of the line up of faces that cheered his name. 

Quickly turning intangible, Danny phased through the earth and reappeared behind Dash. Baxter was scrambling around, looking quite frightened despite the threat being gone. He was surveying high and low, snapping his head in all manner of directions. For something-- someone that’s when Danny realized Dash was calling his name. Baxter smacked his forehead crying out, “Fenton! Fenton! Where are you?!” 

Wow, who knew Dash was a method actor. He was certainly dedicated to the ruse. He almost sounded distressed. The phantom poked the quarterback, causing him to flinch before turning around. Initially, Dash’s eyes were large, then quickly fell in disappointment. Baxter fitfully grabbed Danny’s shoulders, “Phantom, thank god you’re here--! I’m trying to find my date.” 

Danny blinked… He felt his nose scrunch in befuddlement. The ghost boy was pretty sure the only person Dash came to the drive-in was Danny. In fact, Danny was sure he was the only other person in the car. 

Automatically Phantom began to help, “What does she look like?” 

“I don’t know if you ever met him-- Danny Fenton…?” He ranted, shaking the ghost slightly, “uh… he’s just-- he’s super scrawny and…” Dash deflated, “It was my idea to take him here-- I don’t know what I was thinking. This is shaping up to be the worst night ever. I just hope he didn’t get trampled.” He hopped down from the car, landing on his knee before muttering, “I don't want him to think I bailed.” 

Finding the grass, Danny felt his chest empty of air. His stomach hit the ground. Fingers tangled in his hair, in one moment, he was seen. Now he staggered, weightless but sinking. He was lightheaded, like he was drunk. Bubbling with some strange feeling at the top of his ribs. 

_Date...?_


	9. Freudian slip-up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn't help myself, gotta double-dip bro.

Upon hearing the information. His instant gut reaction was to flee. So he did. Danny knew how to handle many things, knew how to cook for himself, knew how to fly a blimp, and could feasibly know how to split himself into duplicates. Yet, the exact words for this situation escaped him. Danny flew in the opposite direction Dash was looking. 

It wasn't the nicest thing he could do. Once, he was outside the theatre. He lost his form in a flash. Two legs hit the sidewalk-- then he crumpled like he was punched in the gut. Leaning against the fencing that separated the dream state that was the drive-in and the rest of the world. At that moment, Danny felt as small as Dash probably saw him. 

Was he supposed to be relieved that Dash didn't know his secret identity? Or was this unearthing an entirely new problem? 

He was sitting on the curb. Feeling the rough texture pierce through his hands as if that was the only thing keeping him anchored. Every time he felt he had something solved, it unraveled in his hands. Fingernails digging into his scalp. Why was he acting like this? Dash liked him! He liked-liked him, to be more precise. Shouldn't he be flattered...? 

Though it was impossible, Dash couldn't be gay-- Dash Baxter couldn't be gay because-- well, Danny couldn’t dispute it immediately since his head was still reeling. He could’ve just misspoken. That was always a possibility. Dash being gay could jeopardize everything his group was about-- ridiculing those who weren’t socially accepted. He was a brute, a bully, a sexist jerk teleported directly from a bad stage play from the sixties. The fact that everything else about Baxter was so cookie-cutter made this one piece of information unfathomable. 

Ghosts were something he could solve. This wasn't. Danny wasn't sure which was worse, Tucker and Jazz being right-- or Dash staring at him, right through him. 

"Fenton! Jesus! I'm so so-- sorry!" Dash finally sprinted out of the exit gate. He nearly demanded, "Are you okay?"

Danny took a moment to look up at him. Sluggishly he nodded. Dash offered his arm.

Then it was obvious. 

All at once, It was obvious. Like pastel teddy bears stuffed into the foot of the closet. Something you didn't part with, but you thought you outgrew. Something you held onto and carried. Evidence that at one point, you were soft. It was obvious in the way you were squinting at magic-eye-poster too hard. 

Taking his hand, Danny stood up. He sniffled; Fenton hadn’t realized his nose was leaking, and his eyes stung. Danny hardly ever cried-- but he appeared to be working towards it. 

“This was kind of a disaster,” Dash acknowledged. His sturdy posture was compromised with relief. Undoubtedly, Baxter was relieved to see Fenton was intact. Better or worse. He sighed, “I lost the dog in the commotion. We should’ve just gone back to your place; I’m such an---” 

“Dash-- no, cmon. This wasn’t your fault.” 

The quarterback deflated, “Still-- this was a Baxter-sized screw-up, right?” 

“Your dad’s car is--” Fenton gestured back to the drive-in, “beyond… like beyond--” 

The jock shrugged somewhat defeatedly with humor, “He works in insurance.” 

“Wow--” Danny held back a snicker, “that explains a lot.” He repeated under his breath, still lingering on to Dash’s forearm, “That explains… everything.” 

The quarterback cocked his head before giving Danny noogie“... I am so glad you’re okay, Fenton,” he laughed, “Imagine that, though? The only two gay dudes in town found dead in the same place.” 

“Actually-- Dash… I have to tell you something,” Danny let go of Dash’s arm, and put his hands in his pockets, after brushing his hair from his eyes-- 

The streetlight reflected off the pavement as if on cue, a gust pierced through their bodies. His glance shifted down. He stared at their shoes caked with gravel dust. The words couldn’t muscle their way out his mouth. What was he even going to say? ‘I know you’re in an extremely vulnerable place, but I’m not.’ 

“I know,” Baxter replied earnestly. He leaned against the fence, “I know-- and I like you too.” 

Fenton blinked. If he wanted out of this grave, he needed to put down the shovel. Before Danny could explain himself-- Dash removed his jacket, hanging it around Fenton’s shoulders. He traced down Danny’s arm, only to grasp at his hands. The quarterback’s fingers loosely clasping onto the ghost boy’s. Quietly, he insisted, “I’ll walk you home. We might even make it back quicker since my dad’s car is busted.” 

Flinching-- Danny pulled back, “No. Dash-- I can’t.” 

Typically the walk home is when someone made a move on a date. At least from what he gathered from Tv-- And Fenton didn’t want to upset the already wafer-thin ice he was traipsing on. They didn’t have to move-- it was already so far out of his control that it felt like he couldn’t stop now. 

Halting, Dash’s eyes bulged like he was struck. He didn’t push any further, “... Okay. I-- uh... I’ll see you at school.” 

Shedding the jacket, Danny couldn't ignore how big it was on him. He held it by the collar, returning it--

  
  
Baxter dismissed, “It's gonna get cold out, and it’s not like I don’t have extras. Don’t sweat it. Just get home safe.” 

Without saying goodbye, Danny turned from the direction they came from. Dash waved before kicking the ground and migrating toward the crosswalk. It was a hurried brisk pace, which eventually led to a sprint. Without intention, Danny began flying. Taking to the sky, anything to make this night end faster. 

* * *

It was almost a quarter past nine. Jasmine already went into the basement and gave her parents the five-minute bedtime warning. Begrudgingly the adults came upstairs. They brushed their teeth. In the meantime, Jazz was going over her notes for another scholarship essay-- perhaps her best yet. It may have been easier to submit the same one over and over again, but she got joy out of the challenge. She also really enjoyed talking to herself in a one-way dialogue. That’s why she kept a good journal. A journal that Danny said could win a blueberry. When she corrected him, he didn’t think that was right either. Trying to get a better lock for the thing was pointless, might as well try to find a new brother. While she found it annoying at first-- it was the only way Danny could find out what she was up to when they couldn’t talk to each other. He was obtuse in his need to be close to others. Jazz’s brother never knew what he wanted. Which is why she hoped her little plan did him some good. Either that or it would be an extremely humorous story. 

There was a rapping at her window. 

Much earlier than she expected. Jasmine tucked the curtain back, tying it off. She saw the Phantom pressing his face on the glass angrily. Fighting back smile, “You can come in.” She snickered, “I figured ghosts didn’t need permission.” 

Danny fell through the wall of his sister’s bedroom. Laying starfish on her pink rug, he looked up at his sister with the same look of disdain from the window. 

Jasmine pulled up her desk chair, “So… how was the movie?” 

“No… no-- no… Right now, you are not my sister.” 

“Danny… c’mon.” She nudged her brother with her slipper, “You had fun, right?” 

The younger Fenton kicked his legs defiantly, “That’s not the point! You knew the whole time-- AND DIDN’T TELL ME?” 

“You would’ve been too in your own head the entire night,” Jazz determined, placing her chin on her arms. She stared down at her helpless little brother, who seemed to forget what fun was. She surmised, “I think it was good for Dash too. He felt like a different idiot than the one I was tutoring through algebra. Like an idiot in l--” 

“Don’t say that word.” 

She giggled, “What? Did he do the fake yawn thing? Did Dash Baxter put the moves on you?” 

The two pale rings materialized from his chest-- with a hum, Danny Fenton was himself again. He sat up, the letterman falling off his back, “It's not funny!” 

“What uh-- what do you got there?” Jazz reached down to pluck the jacket from her floor.

Danny instinctively yanked it away from her. His cheeks felt strange. The younger shouted, “You said-- You said I wasn’t crazy.” He bit his cheek, trying to keep it together but Danny's breathing was ragged and exhausted, “Jazz, this is the kind of shit that makes me feel crazy.” 

“That isn’t what I said exactly…” She mumbled. 

“I-- I am so unbelievably angry with you. You knew the whole time--” 

“I didn’t really know, it was an excellent educated guess,” she remarked, “I mean, he had to have been overcompensating for-- something, right?” 

Daniel pursed his lips before pouting. He stomped out of Jazz’s room, rustling her posters and decorations, as he slammed to door shut.

She raised her eyebrows, calling after her brother, “So, pick up again tomorrow? Same time? Good talk… good talk... “ Jasmine pushed in her desk chair and began typing at her essay again, only a small fleck of guilt pulling at the back of her brain. However, she wouldn’t have said that her experiment totally backfired.


	10. Roll for Initiative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, another super, quick n dirty update. I'll probably tweak this and the other chapters around this weekend, beef up the word count now that I'm coming off of writing mode and going into editor mode. Feel free to read over the story again or leave some feedback on some stuff I can work on. As for that Tucker is rad as hell and I love him, that's all.

The cafeteria settled into its lull as the lunch ladies began to shutter the serving windows. Danny picked at his tray, pushing around his salad and square of pizza bread. There was a dark cloud drowning the geek table. The cold shoulder was arctic and cavernous between Danny and Sam. The feud was still on, that didn’t mean they couldn’t share the table. 

Foley removed his backpack and rooted around, “Do you guys want to see the new dice set I got for the campaign? They’re my druid’s colors.” 

“Yeah, Danny, do you wanna not be a selfish jerk and look at your friend’s sparkly dice?” 

Fenton dropped his fork onto his food and silently stared daggers at Sam. He had an open body language as if begging Sam to take the first shot since she clearly wanted to fight. She replied with a folded brow and a stern expression. All they needed was some nature documentary sounds to fully sell the image of a catty catfight. 

“They’re not sparkly…” Foley pulled out his twenty-sided die, fumbling for a distraction between the animosity, “they have gold flakes.” 

A football darted above their heads, narrowly missing Sam’s ponytail. She slammed her fists onto the table, causing the bolts in the folds to rattle. Manson snapped at the jocks walking by, retrieving their ball, “Can you find the field? It’s not like you spend a majority of your life there or anything!” 

“Sam,” Danny uttered, embarrassed. 

The athletes moved on in their sauntering herd, whispering amongst each other with scrutiny. Sam didn’t really get ‘embarrassed.’ She had immeasurable amounts of confidence and stubbornness. Not to mention bundles of impulsivity, Never speechless. Extremely opinionated. She made it difficult to keep their heads off the chopping block. 

“What?”

Danny stood pointing at Sam, “You were the one that told me to pump the brakes when I was getting even with the a-listers, but… what are you doing?” 

“I’m sorry, we can’t all be social climbers like you,” She scowled. 

By no means was the ghost anyone someone who sought to be the top, the king of anyone-- but he wanted what anyone wanted, to be accepted. He knew that Sam possessed that compassion, so… who was she doing this for? Was this her way of protecting him? Making him feel awful for wanting any form of a boundary? 

“This-- I’m not some indie rock band selling out. Wh--What are you--? Why-- why is it every single time someone pays a little interest in me, it’s suddenly open season, huh?” He stared at her with askance, “What gives with that, Sam?” 

Tucker pulled out two more tiny drawstring bags, “I forgot to mention I was allowed to make molds in metal-shop so-- you’re welcome for fly as hell color-coordinated dice sets.” 

When he didn’t start the conflict, Tuck was positively averse to it. He didn’t want the people closest to him to be so consumed by a petty difference of opinion. Though in Danny’s mind, it was a matter of life or death. More accurately, afterlife or experimentation. 

Sam pushed Tucker’s hand gently back into his chest, “the adults are talking.” 

“What about any of this situation is adult?!” Danny exclaimed at her utter tone-deafness, “We’re fifteen years old-- and you’re mad at me, for--” a strangled noise emerged from his throat, “I don’t know why you’re even mad at me--! Being friends with Dash?” 

“This isn’t about Dash,” Sam countered, she almost scoffed. Danny couldn’t place why that annoyed him more than anything leading up to the fight. 

“Please enlighten me,” Sarcastically, Danny declared, ”if it isn’t about Dash, then what are we fighting over?” 

Gritting her teeth-- Sam gathered her trash onto her tray, including Tucker and Danny’s unfinished lunches, tossing them into the garbage can. Then kicked it over with her fake leather boot. She wasn’t Sam Manson if she didn’t leave a wake of chaos in her path.   
At the table, Danny sighed. He wasn’t really that hungry anyway. Tucker meanwhile gripped his custom made dice to his body. Foley just wanted this to be over already; he wanted his friends back. Without them, Tucker just had old computer parts and his seventy square foot bedroom on weekends. 

“So, did you make my ranger’s dice green or blue?” Fenton asked

Tucker poured the dice into the palm of his hand, revealing that they were translucent with a cerulean tint with a dark navy in the grooves of the numbers. Danny didn’t know the first thing about resin or mold making, but they were smooth, glossy even. He knew it was more complicated than just going to the card store and buying a set. That was enough to tell him that Tucker was a friend for the long haul. Foley wouldn’t be creative or thoughtful for anyone else. 

“These are so professional, dude!” 

Tucker gave a small smile, perking up, “They glow in the dark too.” 

“No way,” Danny studied them closer, “That must’ve taken forever.” 

“Yeah-- it's whatever yknow? I had way too much free time-- But I made them light and see-through because like-- uh…” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Danny laughed, “I appreciate it, though.” 

“Sam’s were a bit harder though since her character is a barbarian,” Tucker hefted the purple felt bag, “her set weighs a ton, not on one side, thankfully. But it took some trial and error since I was working with denser material. The guys on the DIY forum were surprisingly accommodating.” 

There was a silence for a moment. Danny scratched his head, “Are you still mad at me too?” 

Unrolling his sweater sleeve, Tucker put the dice bags away into his backpack. Class was going to start soon. 

“Tucker… Are you--” 

“I heard you,” He said sullenly. Tucker adjusted his glasses, “It’s… It's none of my business what you do or don’t do with your powers; I’ve learned that much. As much as I want to be included, I know that… I can never relate to what you’re going through, just like how you could never understand what it’s like being… being an autistic black kid. You used to like going to pep rallies, and you stopped ‘cuz I couldn’t do them. You never brought it up, but I noticed.”   
He concluded, “I don't know what the ghost equivalent of a pep rally is, but I'll be there for you if I can."

Tucker stood and headed towards the exit, “I’m gonna go find Sam before she burns down something.” 

Placing his head on the table, Danny realized that didn’t answer his question either. Why was he so bad at this?


	11. Debt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be read as Veggie Burger? Could be? Either way, I love Sam, and I wanted to capitalize on the arc that the show writers forgot to write, I guess-- I want to give a huge thank you to all the comments and everything I've been receiving; they're extremely motivating! You all are literally as sweet as I want to make this story.

The library was slowly becoming a shell of its former self… er-- its former shelf? 

Casper High wasn’t exactly big into ‘book learning.’ They weren’t churning out ivy league scholars by any means. Sure, you had your odd Jazz or Pointdexter, misunderstood geniuses-- with potential to be revolutionary doctors or lawyers. People of influence maybe someday. Casper High didn’t really accommodate those students. That wasn’t to say there was no funding or money to provide for them. Just most of that money trickled back into sports and athletics. Those were the types that felt like they owned the place. Sam was a gymnastics prodigy since the age of four. She didn’t want Casper High. She didn’t enjoy that her twice great grandfather’s name was on the library no one was grateful for. It didn’t change how alienated she felt from those in her own ‘social class’. 

Though through all the excess amounts of material goods in her stately townhouse, she never felt more closer to her family or their lineage than right here. Sitting in their library. The Mansons, before her mother took over control of the investment assets-- always seemed to pick losing horses. 

She didn’t like the idea of coasting; she didn’t like being comfortable for too long. Though she had to cling to it, any shred she could find. That’s why she beat herself up over having feelings. For all the money in the world, she couldn’t afford emotions. Sam sat in the skeleton of her grandfather’s greatest gift, taking in the smell of stale page fibers. 

Danny wasn’t a losing horse. 

Sam turned the page of her occult book that she wasn’t absorbing. Her eyes just scanned the illustrations for familiarity. It was times like these where belief felt so misplaced. After months of punching herself mentally until her hands were scraped, she did this to Danny for a reason. Whether cosmically, spiritually-- Her life as it was now had to be this way for some purpose. 

Having defiance be her defining attribute, Sam realized how silly it was that she was leaving it up to fate itself to be her compass. She had spent many sleepless nights pulling at that thread. No one would have liked what was at the end of the line. 

It was immature to assign blame to an accident. No one could have predicted it. Though it did nothing to make her skin stop itching. She saw the toll it took on Danny, though, and she wondered-- if he blamed her too. Or if he knew that she had… a fleeting attraction to his ‘alter ego.’ If she could even defend it that way. It was just Danny with some hair bleach. Sam shut her book, nearly chucking it off the table. Brain stupid. Emotions bad-- 

This fight wasn’t about Dash encroaching on her space. It wasn’t about a self-entitled rich boy sauntering into a mess that didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t even about Danny spending time with someone else. This was just another exercise in Sam hurting others because she couldn’t bear to hurt alone. 

At one point, way before high school even existed, Danny had confided in her that he had always wanted Dash to be his friend. She couldn’t see the appeal. Sam had always assumed it was one of those-- power fantasy things that boys had. He didn’t want to be friends with the actual Dash Baxter. He wanted to be Dash Baxter. He wanted that same level of popularity--

She was staring off into nothing. Letting her vision become unfocused with her frustration, and in walked a familiar large blond martini-glass frame. Though suspiciously missing a trademark red jacket, in favor of an unassuming black muscle shirt. Well, one had to assume it was a muscle shirt or all normal clothes just sat like that on a football legend to be. 

Sam noticed that the jock had several rather decently sized paperbacks on the counter. Was he lost? 

“Hey… I’m all for ditching, but you’re my home ec partner for life, till death do us part,” Tucker leaned on the corner of the table, trying to find some comforting words. All he could manage was a vague attempt at demonstrating his loyalty. Sam craned her neck around Foley to see that Dash had already left, and the books were gone as well. 

Foley coaxing Sam continued,” --and we have to do a presentation about credit card interest rates. I mean, I helped you put it together, no offense but the red text on a black background that’s a little sixth grade…” 

  
Swallowing all of her pride, Manson toyed with her bracelets, “I’m sorry, for I spoke to you back there. That wasn’t cool. I know you don’t like being talked down to... “ 

“Someone’s gotta keep my ego in check,” He joked, raising a hand.

High-fiving him, Sam clasped onto his hand to pull herself out of her chair. She gathered her occult book, distracted that she dropped it onto the floor. 

“Danny’s really got you bent out of shape, huh?” Tucker returned it to her, “Or should I say--” 

“You shouldn’t, actually.” Sam darted her glance around-- she yanked Foley behind the culture section. She held her ritual book close, correcting, “I really shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” Foley dismissed, “You always eyeball his ghostly swish tail butt. Girl, there’s nothing there.” 

She covered her eyes in cliche teenage girl shame speaking in a whisper-scream, lamely attempting to get Tucker to do the same since he had trouble controlling his volume, “I know there’s nothing there! I’ve checked!” 

“... Are you ever going to tell him?” It was a loaded question as it was honest. Tucker was nothing if not blunt. He had little patience for things that didn’t involve academics or technology. Usually, Sam was of the same outlook. Secrets? Drama? As a group, they tended to stick to what they knew, which was obscure music, tabletop RPGs, and science. Well, and the one-off time they accidentally murdered their own friend, but they never claimed they were good scientists. 

“Tucker, I can barely look you in the face when we talk about it,” Manson crossed her arms. “What do you think?” 

“Do you remember the dance?” He steered her by the shoulders past the check-out desk.

“I try not to.” 

“I get flashes here and there-- “ Foley gave a so-so motion, “being overshadowed through some of it didn’t help. But at one point, you and I were supposed to go together.” 

Sam landed on the crash bar with her back, “That was… weird.” 

“Good, weird?” Tucker smiled slightly, helping her push the door.

Sam didn’t respond. Tucker scratched his head through his hat... suppose that was a good enough answer. They exited the library.

There was no curing what ailed Sam, and that was Danny. Tucker could live with that. As long as she was happy, as long as Danny was happy-- then surely he could find it in him to be happy too. Though… Danny did resemble a bird with a healed wing, still stuck in its cage by the window. It wasn't so much that he wanted to be rid of them, but they could stand to hover less. They wandered the empty halls, with nothing but the rhythm of their shoes on the linoleum. 

“Tucker, were you gonna say you had a crush on me--?” Sam decided that the question was too freaky to ignore. 

Distracted by his possible solutions, Foley hummed, "hm?"

Then his ears finally did their job besides holding up his glasses. Tucker shrugged casually as if he didn’t drop a bombshell that would’ve shaken a lesser friendship to the bedrock, “I get a crush on everyone, Sam.” 

Manson winced, stopping in her tracks, “Doesn’t that hurt?” 

“If you love everyone you come across, it becomes greater than the sum of the hurt.”He didn’t stop; he kept going. Because like it or not, they were going to class. 

She shook her head, catching up. “It can’t be that easy.” 

“No, but it gets easier.” Tucker found the arm rail for the basement stairs, “Everything does.”

At the top of the stairs, Sam found herself significantly less frozen in place. At least now, she unclenched her teeth and loosened her hands around her book before descending to the next floor. 

* * *

“Since the school play is rapidly approaching.” Mr Lancer began, gesturing to the sign-up sheet at the front of the classroom, “I figure we could shift gear from the motor history of our great state of Michigan and focus on the history of oral performance--” 

Kwan snickered. 

“Yes, I too find Greco-Roman opera very amusing.” Lancer removed his reading glasses with lethal derisive intent, “So amusing I expect a twelve hundred word essay in my hand tomorrow, Mr Byun.” 

“Aww, man,” the linebacker whined.

Unflappable, the teacher continued his tirade, "Unfortunately for you all, you will have a slightly less amusing task. Mythology of any culture has a habit of evolving with the times. Whether to unconscious choice or deliberate translator meddling." 

By the window, Danny stared at the grey overcast, wondering where all the sun yesterday went. He scribbled 'mythology' in his notebook and waited for Mr Lancer to reach the point.

He drew a box with a few pushes of chalk with a missing lid, "Pandora, for example. She's one of my favorite examples. All the gods made Pandora with the intention to punish man-- so to say. With her magic box of chaos with her." 

"Most scholars paint Pandora as an unwitting and curious individual. Not knowing the dangers of her box. Though the closest and my interpretation-- Pandora knew perfectly well what her box held, she had Hermes' cunning and the rage of Aries. She was the first Trojan horse, sent to Epimetheus."

Lancer made an explosion with his hands before excitedly running his fingers over the chain for his reading glasses. He drew a wave exiting the box. Laughing somewhat maniacally. 

He coughed, "Of course, what left that box was sickness, death, evil itself in some versions. However, the one thing that would not leave the box was hope. I'd like to believe even Pandora herself put this addition into the box because she and the gods' combined power weren't strong enough to renounce it completely. Incredibly cheesy, I know." 

A loosely wadded paper ball landed on Danny's notebook. Since this was a common method the populars would use to mess with him-- not an especially good one, Danny brushed it off his desk. 

The next one hit his temple. 

He scowled, glaring in the direction it came from. And there Dash was facing the front of the room, but with a smirk directed for him. Danny thought they were finally on good terms now? 

Oh God-- oh no. It donned on him that these could be love--

Jesus, he couldn't even think it.

**_Love notes?_ **

Danny shuddered at the thought. When the third one nearly bounced off the window as a trick shot and landed in Danny's hair, that's when he decided that this was a waste of paper. 

Scooping the first one from the floor, it was probably best to read them in order. The scrawl was heavy-handed but neater than he originally thought. What was unexpected was that he drew out circles for his lowercase I's.

**_"Thanks for Saturday. I know it was kind of-- how it usually is around here. My dad was more worried about us than the car. It took me forever to convince him that we were fine after seeing the damages. Dads are like that, I guess. I still can't believe it. A few more inches to the left, I could've been skewered._ **

**_It would be cool if we could hang out again._ **

**_But if you don't, that's cool too."_ **

Danny looked at Dash. Writing down something that Lancer was squawking about. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Had all the paper bullets thrown his way had clumsy attempts at being friendly? 

Unfolding the second one, Danny let go of a humorous sigh, 

**_"I almost forgot, but that thing from the drive-in followed me home. It's been hanging around my backyard. It doesn't seem that dangerous, but if you still want to take him back to your lab… or whatever it is your parents have."_ **

The third paper ball was a generously cute drawing of what appeared to be a pit bull puppy with folded ears, colored in with a green highlighter. 


	12. Hot Towels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I should really work on my secret trio fic. or that fnaf novelization I've been working on for half a year... or I could finish that sonadow fic-- 
> 
> also me: haha! procrastination.

_Danny: What does it mean if Dash invites me to his house?_

_Jazz: … that's unexpected._

_Danny: you cannot say this to me and think I will react positively._

_Jazz: did he say why?_

_Danny: The ghost dog followed him home._

_Jazz: and it didn't eat him?_

_Danny: surprised? Yeah, me too._

_Jazz: I know I ask this a lot, but why are you worried exactly?_

_Danny: We're going to be at his house, alone, presumably._

_Jazz: didn't you explain to me that this was one of your "fantasies"?_

_Danny: DAYDREAM!! I SAID DAYDREAM-- And, yeah, at one point in the throws of my subpar self-esteem years ago, I wanted to be friends with the guy-- sue me! I didn't really think I would get this far!_

_Jazz: Right. Either way, from what I've been profiling about him-- he isn't going to do anything stupid. He may act like a big shot, but uh, the obvious peacock is obvious._

_Danny: profiling? You mean excessive internet stalking?_

_Jazz: hey, I gotta make sure your boyfriend isn't weird._

_Danny: …_

_Danny: I can't tell if you're screwing with me._

_Jazz: ;p_

  
  


"Mr Fenton, you're certainly gunning for that third detention, with the bravado of an Olympic pole vaulter." Lancer moved the phone with his ruler, swatting it to the table. 

A nervous chuckle escaped Danny, "I'm sorry, Mr Lancer." 

Upon noticing the crumpled paper decorating the desk, Lancer leaned down, "If I didn't know any better, it looks like you were passing notes too." 

Before Danny could protest, Lancer snatched one off of his trapper-keeper. He inspected it, raising his brow in disdain. Mr Lancer flipped the paper around, revealing the picture of Cujo Dash drew. The teacher demanded, "What is this?" 

"I… draw to keep my hands busy?" Danny smiled.

Lancer sneered, staring down at his student… for a moment, the teacher considered that Fenton clearly was acting erratically these past few days. Clearly, the threat of punishment did nothing to scare the behavior out of him. So instead, Lancer employed the use of the carrot. He gave the drawing back to his student, complementing, "it's very good, but try to stay focused on the lesson Danny. No one is above the classics." 

  
  


"Yes, sir," he breathed, shooting a glance at Dash. 

Dash was looking at the clock. Though very subtly, he gave Danny a thumbs up. 

\-- 

The bell rang, and everyone began their routine to leave. The zipping of jackets and bags, the very recognizable sound of pencils hitting pencils. Danny threw his backpack over his shoulder, making a b-line for the door. 

"Mr Fenton, do not mistake my compassion from earlier, meaning that I am not collecting your two-hour detention," Lancer called from his computer. He propped his feet up on his desk. Licking his thumb, he turned the page for the lengthy novel he had been working through during class assignment. 

Danny froze, turning back to his seat. 

Having not left yet, Dash placed his collection of books under his arm, then threw himself into the conversation, "Actually, Fenton is the new equipment manager for the team." 

"What was that?" "Huh?" Both Danny and Mr Lancer gave Baxter the same puzzled look. 

Dash approached, slinging his arm around Danny's shoulders, "Danny’s the new equipment manager, and also like-- my personal latte fetcher-- yknow how it is." 

"He does all the snack runs, makes sure all our water bottles are full, that sort of thing. He's really good at…" Dash glanced down at Danny, snapping his fingers in mock remembrance. Certainly, the quarterback had experience with selling a lie. He hummed, "uh what was that thing-- that thing with the--"

Blurting out, Danny added, "towels… I organize the towels, make sure they're uh… steamed?"

"Right… towels," Dash gave a single haughty chest laugh.

  
  


Perplexed, Lancer looked at the pair. Did they really expect him to buy that? It did explain why he saw Fenton tearing off from the football field like a bat from the firey pit… 

Surely, a screw-up like Fenton could learn a thing or two from Baxter. Perhaps he was still feeling moved by his earlier act of kindness-- and in all honesty, Lancer did overreact to something quite silly and superficial. After intense authoritative staring, the teacher finally acquiesced, "for the good of the Casper high Crows, I'm letting this infraction slide Mr Fenton. See to it that you help the team win against the Papermakers next week." 

Giving a salute, Danny stammered out, "Ye-- y-you got it." 

Dash led them both out the door and into the hallway. Which once the door closed behind them, the football player removed his arm, "Er-- sorry, I figured I owed you from you not ratting my notes out." 

"Uh, yeah-- yeah, totally. Thanks." Danny cleared his throat. He fidgeted away from Dash, still insecure about how he was dwarfed next to him. 

Giving a wave, Dash turned and sped down the hall. He nearly rounded the corner before Danny got the impression that Dash didn't want him to follow--

"Hey! Wait!" 

The harsh sound of sneaker soles against the waxed floor echoed down the corridor. 

Fenton called out, "I thought we were going to your house?!" 

For as much as he was dreading it-- the phantom did have an expectation that he would be asked. There was no possible way Dash could handle a ghost by himself, so it was only natural that Dash would want his help, right? The quarterback didn't necessarily invite him, but Fenton had assumed that it was leading to that.

"Uh… if you want to?" Baxter adjusted his books with the absence of his jacket. Even with the distance, Danny could tell the quarterback was looking at the floor to avoid revealing his face. 

"Wow, you have nothing better to do?" Danny put a hand on his hip, teasing his former bully. 

Dash scoffed, lifting his head. A blush on his cheeks. Flustered, he replied, "I just don't want to get in the way of your dorkfest or like your-- nerd powwow-- or whatever." 

Clever insults were never really Dash's trade, but it was so much worse when he was embarrassed.

Danny crossed his arms-- this wasn't cute-- this wasn't cute. It's not cute-- it's not. In a moment, Danny finally got what Tucker was talking about with Ho-Tep Ra. It was fun bossing around someone bigger than you.

The ghost shook his head-- gah! He's not--! God, he was dumb! Danny yelled, "if you can find time between flexing and looking at yourself, I'm sure I can put the dorkfest on hold." 

* * *

_Tuck: between all the yelling and fighting, we didn't ask. How did it go with Dash?_

_Manson: Yeah, did he actually put two-and-two together? I'd admit to owing you a meat-lovers apology pizza if I were just completely wrong._

_Manson: hellooooo?_

_Tuck: Are we being ghosted?_

_Manson: idfk._

_Manson: I won't even tell you how bad a meat-lovers pizza is for your colon._

_Tuck: Danny!!!_

_Manson: *sigh* he's probably still mad. I don't blame him. We were acting like clods._

_Tuck: "we"??_

_Manson: you have your moments._

Hesitantly, he checked his phone-- to see his crew returning to their factory settings. He gave consideration to updating them about the situation. Danny then imagined the amount of mockery he would receive. Not quite sure how to phrase it-- ‘it turns out Dash thinks we’re going steady or something because it turns out I’m the only other ‘gay’ guy in school.’ 

It wasn’t particularly sensitive. Sam and Tucker continued to facetiously bicker with each other in the group chat in vain attempts to get Danny’s attention. Begining to pigeon type out a message-- he then deleted a fair chunk of it-- 

Dash piped up, “Everything okay?” 

Startled, Danny juggled his phone from hand to hand-- hoping he wouldn’t drop it onto the road. 

_Dan-the-Man: Dash doesn’t know I’m AFFkASA#@$@_

  
  



	13. Lifestyles of the Rich and Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again! A longer update for you all. I wanted to let this one marinate a bit longer past Valentine's day. I wanted to really flesh out my interpretation of Dash, and well, I hope you still like him. I've always wanted a reboot of the show where Dash ends up joining the gang; I always thought it was weird that like Tucker got to use the Fenton gauntlets when they look like they weigh a ton-- like no slight against my favorite nerd, but I always felt like Dash was supposed to use them but never did? Either way, we'll wade more into Dash's character in a future chapter.

Dash’s house hadn’t changed much since last Danny saw it-- it was big-- with a huge porch with three concrete steps leading up to a big burgundy door. A heavy door that made Danny feel dread. Like there would be a swarm of kids just on the other side of it. He couldn’t make himself move up.

Producing his house keys, Dash opened the door with a weighty creak, “My dad usually gets home around, six I guess. So you got three hours.”

“And your Mom?” Fenton asked. He noted that the lights were left on during the day, what he wouldn’t give to have that kind of money. That was the kind of money that could stuff their kid’s wallets with hundred and have them driving eyesores. Danny got the impression that Dash didn’t fully understand how wealthy he was. Money was probably as natural as breathing for him. The foyer's insides were a cold red-- like a fuschia, the floor was bleached platinum white wood with iron stains. It was definitely a shoes-off kind of house, but Dash trudged past the welcome mat with indifference. The house had a deceptively narrow entryway. Dash’s broad shoulders seemed to bounce between the two walls uncomfortably. It was suffocating to watch, but couldn’t think of it from Dash’s perspective. The ceiling was tall, with ornately decorated crystal obtrusive dome lights.

In the middle of mumbling something about ordering a pizza, the quarterback kind of faltered-- processing the question, “... Uh, same time, or later,” he added, “Depending.” He rolled his shoulder toward the kitchen behind the stairs, “It's this way to the backyard.”

Realizing Danny had forced himself up the stairs, he was still a foot back from the door frame. He couldn’t figure out why this was so difficult. His hands found each other, and they were shaking down to his elbows. Grasping his own wrist tightly, he took a breath and waded into the house, “So the ghost dog… he hasn't like done anything to you or--?”

Dash scratched his head, "Nah, he's been pretty friendly, even to Pookie."

"P-- Pookie…?" Danny repeated, making sure he heard that correctly. Was he grinning like he just heard the world's worst joke? Absolutely.

All of a sudden, claws on the hardwood frantically clamored towards the pair. A startlingly tiny chihuahua excitedly jumped and yapped a greeting. Dash stooped down unexpectedly, nearly causing Danny to trip over him as he was still distracted by the house and how oppressive it felt.

The quarterback picked the dog up in such a rehearsed manner that the dog already clung to his muscular forearm. Dash cradled his dog very much like a football.

"This is Pookie," he introduced.

Dumbfounded, Danny stood in disbelief-- shouldn't he have had a Rottweiler named Heinz or Brutus…? Not a rodent creature that would tremble at its own shadow. Though funnily enough, despite the dog's rather unassuming nature, he had an intimidating black spiked collar.

"Before you ask," Dash immediately registered the trademark look of snark on Danny's face, "I named him when I was like seven."

"I wasn't gonna say anything."

"Sure you weren't, Fenton." Baxter rolled his eyes. Setting Pookie down, the dog skidded on the clean floor to the back kitchen door. The dog clawed and leapt up toward the doorknob, despite the doggy-door being right in front of him.

Dash explained, twisting the door open to the backyard, "He thinks he won't fit in the door."

"His ears do resemble a cable dish," Fenton cracked.

Dash gasped overdramatically, "that's my brother--"

The landline began to ring. Dash gestured for Danny to go ahead to the backyard. But then gave finger guns, "Pizza toppings--? I'm getting extra olives and pineapple."

"Oh sure-- on your half." Fenton smirked, “I am tragically basic, pepperoni.”

Dash picked up the handset. He wished his family had kept the rotary; idly winding the coiled cord around his fingers kept him at least entertained.

"Hey, Rebecca." He greeted, his voice not matching his face. Dash's eyes were following Danny around the backyard. Out of all the parties he's thrown, no one had exactly complimented his hosting skills. Self-conscious wasn't in his rotation. Dash wouldn't describe himself as focused, but he's been having difficulty being himself lately. Maybe that was a person who never really existed until now. It wasn't that Dash struggled with his role in this preconceived production. He accepted it as easily as he did everything else in his life. He rolled with the punches because that's what was expected of him. He figured everyone had a pit in their stomach that wouldn't leave. That was the pound of flesh everyone wanted back.

That sense of longing. That ringing in his ear that he could ignore if no one left him alone long enough to ponder on it.

Life wouldn't slow down and wait for him to catch up. Go go go.

This haze of uncertainty was new. It was uncharted territory for the jock. Despite his grades in math, Dash was intelligent. He could recognize patterns. He was quite aware of his odds, shredding his body for football and then going on to live some inconsequential suburban life. Maybe go onto coaching. Despite what he told himself, he wasn't stupid. Baxter knew what his future was, so he was reluctant to lean into it. With heels dug in.

Everyone had their parts in the story of their lives. This was the first time Dash wasn't reading off the page.

However, he had wondered just how long he had been off-script. Danny wasn’t Baxter’s first choice-- or even first… first--

“Uh-huh... yeah, I’m listening.” Dash cleared his throat. Switching hands, he tried to recalibrate. He faced the calendar that outlined Dash’s game schedule and other events his parents had given luke-warm RSVPs to. Nodding along, he confirmed, “Yeah, I can get the garbage out. I was about to order dinner actually-- Already turned on the sprinklers this morning…” The athlete’s shoulder’s scrunched, "uh-- no I don’t-- I don’t have anyone over.”

Warily Dash relaxed. He lied, “Yeah… I’m just here getting homework done.”

Already having several close calls, Rebecca found his ‘bodybuilder’ magazines that he totally read for the articles-- He did not need his family making this weirder than it already was. They were starting to suspect something. There had been this silent understanding reached that Dash was allowed to speak freely and express himself-- Only if it didn’t rock the boat. As long as what Dash had to say was interesting, relevant, and inoffensive to his parents. When he did see his dad, they didn’t get past ‘how was your day?’ before his father retired to the living room, rewatching old college games.

“See you when you get home then.” He hung up before she changed her mind and lectured at him some more. For a moment, he pressed his face into his hand, fuming under his breath. He hadn't been listening that diligently. How could he?

It didn't take much to make Dash fidgety and nervous. His hard-nosed reputation was only an intimidating lie that kept everyone at arm's length, which was where he preferred them.  
He… was still cool, right? Danny must have still thought that Dash was cool?

Removing the handset once more. He punched in the delivery number-- of course, Danny thought he was cool. It wasn't as if Dash had become popular with any goal in mind. He just happened to have gotten to the top by doing what everyone else did. Fenton, Manson, and Foley just didn't do what everyone else did.

In truth, they terrified him. They were half his size and collectively weighed less than a rival school's linebacker. There was something in the way they rejected all approval that he was… jealous of. Dash was molded to be perfect, so-- why try to be anything else? Even if he deviated-- if he stepped one toe out of line. He was quickly reminded of his place.

Danny had entered the backyard. His still shaking hands were now in his pockets. He couldn't believe he was actually here. Like for real. As a guest. It was a lot. Scratching his ear with his shoulder, Danny didn't know that ears could get red. What was he doing? Danny was here to get a ghost out of Dash’s house-- and then? Then what? What was he supposed to do? He was used to lying to people; he had grown somewhat skilled at it. It had become second nature that he didn’t even need to translate in his brain. However, this was something… new. A sensation of guilt and… weird indignation. He shouldn’t feel bad at all for deceiving Dash because-- well, Dash had treated him like garbage.

But he apologized-- and Danny didn’t necessarily want to accept it. Just because Dash had insecurities, that meant that he had to wield them like a weapon against anyone he viewed as a threat?

The phantom sighed,

‘Forget about it, Jake; It's just high school.’

Sunday gave him a brief period of reflection. All of the times Danny ‘spilled’ paint on Dash’s artwork that he left out, trying to ruin his haunted house exhibit, breaking into his locker with his ghost powers to hide something weird inside. Danny hardly thought about Dash as a threat anymore. To be a threat, you had to be on the same level. Because Danny no longer played the victim. It was a difficult realization that he made Dash’s life more difficult simply when it amused him. Despite claiming to be passive, to be just like everyone else-- Danny wasn’t.

Did it really matter who started it?

This unspoken dynamic had been going on for so long that it was practically unquestioned.  
His thoughts still lingered on that party. That stupid party. Where he stood on Dash’s doorstep on an incredible high-- having just barely scraped enough of his money together. It truly felt like this was where he would transcend. This had to have been it. No one seemed to regard Cinderella as a coming-of-age story-- but it should be. It was a moment where Danny could pretend that he wasn’t everything he hated. One night where he didn’t have responsibility. Where he could just be a face in the crowd.

Maybe he could have used that money for something actually useful. Or spent it on in-game credits for Doomed.

With a crack, Danny had accidentally stepped on a blue plastic frisbee. There were chips taken off the rim and white blurs where the plastic was warped. As soon as he picked it up, Pookie took a playful stance.

He blinked momentarily puzzled--

“Uh… sorry, I’m not really in the mood to--”

The beady-eyed Chihuahua gave a soft whine.

Oh, how could he even refuse? With a spin, Danny launched the disc to the opposite side of the backyard. It bounced off a barely touched gas grill, gathering cobwebs, and skidded to a stop on the concrete path framing the lawn. There was some stray sporting equipment littering the neatly trimmed grass. It looked a lot more expensive than the stuff at school, almost professional. There were technicolored human-sized dummies. One had a huge metal armature sticking out of it-- that was a sled style, training dummy. Danny had heard the term thrown around during training season.

It was a narrow but long yard, with plenty of room-- usually, in the city, all houses were stuffed next to each other, nothing but cement. The grass was lush and alive. It would've been nice to have a tree for shade but suppose they couldn't have everything. It was nice. 

That thought remained. And everything else drifted away. This was nice. Danny resigned.

Pookie had brought back the plastic disc in a polite and rehearsed manner. The dog set the frisbee almost directly on top of Danny’s shoe. Using a weaker throw, Fenton still sent the frisbee in another direction. He threw down his backpack, unsheathing the Fenton thermos. There was still a task. He called out in the most commanding voice he could manage, “Cujo! Come!”

Aside from the energetic chihuahua, there was no activity to be detected in the backyard. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t be the disciplinary parent. Losing the tone, he called more dotingly, “Cujo--!”

He uncharacteristically was reticent for one of their usual run-ins.

If he was a ghost dog…? Wait-- no, that’s wrong. If he was Dash, where would he hide a ghost dog? Danny noticed there was no dog house. Unless Dash covered it up with all the football junk! He climbed on to the ledge behind the sled dummy, though he still wasn’t tall enough to see over the--

Duh! Ghost powers!

Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that Dash was still busy on the phone. Facing away from the glass door to the backyard. He hopped off the dummy, then pushed the dummies aside with his psychokinesis. Neatly he organized them into sections by color. To unearth a rudimentary dog house with a wooden nameplate. Dash’s handwriting had come a long way-- but the dots were recognizable. There was a hand-painted red roof, more than likely painted with the same brush as the nameplate was to top it off.

Danny kneeled to make himself more approachable. He always worried about approaching the ghost dog in human form, as if it would be the final nail in the coffin on whether or not he becomes a different person when he becomes the phantom. Maybe, Danny had one of those faces, or people didn’t really notice when he was gone. It was the surface-level infatuation the Casper high students had with the phantom that made him believe that he must have acted completely different while on duty.  
They spoke to him like he was their friend despite knowing absolutely nothing about them. And clearly, they knew everything about him. Everything that they wanted to know at least. Saturday at the drive-in was-- unique in that regard. Dash looked at the Phantom differently.

Patting his thighs and calling out a few more times, Danny edged his way toward the dog house. This must have been where Dash stashed Cujo. Despite owning a rather small breed, Dash appeared to have built the dog house with large ambitions. Doing a quick estimate in his head, Danny reluctantly plunged his head into the entrance to the dog house. There was an interior floor raised above the ground. Fenton worked his shoulder into the opening--

Well… This was a waste of time. If Cujo were invisible, he would’ve revealed himself by now. Danny tried to back out, only to be met with a pinching under his arm. He wiggled forward and then tried again-- this time the whole structure squeezed his upper torso. This, of course, would’ve been an easy fix if he hadn’t heard footsteps approaching behind him on the grass.

Dash was trying to hold back from snickering, “uh… whatcha doing there?”

“Obviously, I’d check the dog house because…” Fenton mumbled, “human ghosts haunt human houses.”

“Uh-huh,” Dash could follow that logic. He squatted on the left side of Danny to get a better look at the problem.

“I did a quick calculation, and I knew my head would fit.”

Dash knocked on the roof, “and how did that work out for you, brainiac?”

Danny gave a curt and short laugh, “I’m not stuck.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Baxter was impressed; even he wouldn’t do something this… ridiculous. Danny always seemed skittish, but he possessed a sharp wit. It was humanizing, knowing that he made stupid, impulsive mistakes from time to time. Dash stood up, “Y’know I didn’t ask, did you want water or something?”

“Wow-- wow… you know what-- sure.” Fenton hit his fist on the floor of the dog house, sarcastically remarking, “Sure, I feel like we know each other well enough. Could I get a water?”

Dash bit his mouth, trying to stop from smiling to himself, “Just we’re clear on that water-- ice, no ice?”

“Dash.”

“Just so you’re aware, I didn’t start looking at your butt until--” Baxter snapped his fingers, “Now.”

Fenton using his left hand, braced himself against the outside of the dog house, pushing. He knew the athlete was joking-- probably-- but Danny didn’t find it amusing, “Dash!”

Footsteps departed, and Danny heard the sliding glass door open and shut again. The ghost briefly lost his solid form and passed through the structure's roof, looking much like a breaching whale. Nice going, Fenton. Instead of breaking up with your not-boyfriend, he now thinks your butt is cute. Oh, the humanity. The mundane humanity of it all.

Danny resolidified.

Pookie started yapping at the ghost boy again.

“No one will believe you,” He joked.

A green glowing aura walked out of the dusty locked shed next to the dog house. Danny felt his eye twitch as Cujo waltzed toward Pookie, and they engaged in a play fight. He couldn’t have done that a few minutes earlier?


	14. Midding

Danny sat watching from the back porch the two dogs playing with each other. Despite the undeniable, they were the same animal. Cujo was a lot stronger since he had a puppy's permanent vitality, while Pookie mostly got chased. It was fascinating to watch.

The glass door slid open. Dash had returned with a glass of water and a crowbar. However, upon seeing a freed Danny Fenton, the quarterback rested the crowbar against the outside wall.

Danny defeatedly nodded and waved over his shoulder.

"I told you, I'm great with dogs," Baxter repeated before nudging the cold glass against Danny’s face.

Taking the glass, Danny gave a nose-laugh, “Great with dogs; but your carpentry? Could be improved. I got a splinter.”

“I know you’re naturally sarcastic, but you almost got me there,” Dash took a seat on the back porch deck. He also watched the dogs with the same studious look. Nothing needed to be said. It was a scene only Amity Park could provide. The ghost of a dog interacting with an alive-- real one.

Danny wished it could be that simple. He sipped his water.

The dogs chased each other around the yard, leaping over each other-- Cujo had the obvious advantages of being intangible to the living, so any time he did get too rough, Pookie couldn’t feel it.

“Do you ever think about what’s next?” Baxter propped his knee up.

Danny slouched over, hand on his chin, “usually, if you leave a splinter in, I think what comes next is infection-- or sepsis. I’m not a doctor…”

The quarterback scoffed, “you know what I mean.” Dash jutted his chin toward the dogs, “like… do you ever think about life after death? You probably like-- get this all the time, like with your parents…”

Shifting away slightly, Danny’s eyes went to his shoes.

“I don’t know all about this ghost stuff… but it’s been on my mind; it was a really close call at the drive-in…”

Danny tried to assure him, but dismissively, “I-- uh-- the phantom was there, so--” He wrung his hands together, “So… you weren’t in danger.”

Dash laughed, “I didn’t really take you for the humble type.”

“What do you mean?” Fenton shot up-- straightening his back. The way Dash led into the sentence made him believe the quarterback had connected something. He is still against that… Danny couldn’t let Dash find out for a myriad of different reasons. Dash wouldn’t be safe if he knew. If Danny had it his way, no one would know. Dash wouldn’t tell anyone-- but after meeting Vlad Plasmius, or even-- well, he didn’t want to think about it. No one was immune to being overshadowed. Walker had possessed Dash before, but once someone-- anyone figured out that they were friends. It was a whole new ball game. It was open season.

“You were the one who shoved me out of the way,” Baxter, with disbelief, looked up to the sky. He added under his breath, “Nerd.”

“Right... “ Danny sighed in relief, “Right…”

“I guess, I just-- Maybe it's all the stuff I’ve been reading lately,” Dash gestured to the dogs, “But life after death-- it's freaky, right?”

Unconsciously, Danny defended, “I think it’s… beautiful.”

“Oh-- yeah, that too,” the quarterback clarified, “I more mean like it’s… it's like-- heavy, you know? It’s a lot to process.”

“I guess, yeah,” Fenton shrugged. In truth, he never thought about it since it was always around him. Regardless of ghost powers, his parents acknowledged death as more of a transition than it was a period at the end of the sentence.

“I don’t know, I’ve never gone to church or anything, but I guess I’ve always thought there was a reason for everything.” Dash’s fist found a knuckles worth of hair and held onto it. He mumbled, “Like, I dunno-- we’re all on paths. Destined for something. To make all the struggles worth it.”

Danny looked up at Dash-- which, of course, something he had done a lot in his life, but there was that vulnerability. That chip in the facade again. What did he struggle with? What did Dash know about struggling?

Dash shivered, “Sorry, I guess that came out of nowhere.” Scratching his neck, he then queried, “If you could come back as a ghost, would you?”

It wasn’t a particularly hilarious question, but Danny smiled. He grinned as if he was the cat that ate the canary. It was the prelude to the most painful laughter Dash ever had the pleasure to hear. It wasn’t just a laugh of someone who didn’t do it very often. It took everything out of them to laugh. It was loud; it was compulsive. Dash may have said something so stupid, but if he could get Danny to laugh like that, he would have paid that price again.

The football player held his face closer to his chest since he blushed rather easily. He wondered out loud, “What’s so funny?”

“...It’s a long story--” Danny breathed, “Holy…”

“Drink your water,” Dash reminded with humor.

“I’m drinking my water.” Danny tried not to eat the glass before taking a few breathes-- “Honestly? No, I don’t think I would want to come back. It’s trouble.”

Dash disagreed, “I would. I think it would be neat.”

The ghost boy quirked his brow. He had this patronizing look on his face. He stopped himself short from saying, ‘you don’t really mean that.’ but for once, Danny finally understood the sentiment behind it.

“I dunno. If I died tomorrow, tonight in my sleep,” Baxter then knocked on the wooden deck, “you never know.”

“I think I’d want to stick around. Long enough to make sure everyone was okay without me.”

“Hey, I know a team who would be utterly hopeless without you.” Fenton bumped Dash’s shoulder, trying to shake him from whatever existential spiral he was on.

Giving a soft smile, the quarterback knew what he meant, but that was the problem. He wanted to be so much more than just… the football guy. He didn’t enjoy the idea of people perpetually relying on him to do the right thing because he was just sixteen. It was quite a short time to figure out what the ‘right thing’ was.  
Noticing how cold his hand felt, Baxter glanced down. Danny didn’t seem to notice, but Danny was holding his hand. It was unintentional, but it was exactly what he needed. Like most things, though, it never lasts.

“So, uh, the ghost thermos-- thing-- that won’t-- like hurt the dog, right?”

Fenton retrieved the thermos from his pocket, in part to make sure it was still there, “Oh, no, not at all-- it’s just a bright light that stuns him.”

He set the device down. Still watching Cujo actually enjoying himself, "I want to give him a few more minutes. There's not a lot of other animals in the Ghost Zone."

"It doesn't sound very lively," Dash smirked.

Danny groaned, "You get one. One point for that."

"I noticed his tag had the Axiom Labs logo on it. You think he used to be a guard dog? He follows commands like a pro."

"For you maybe," Danny noted. To prove his point, he called, "Cujo!"

The ghost dog only looked at Danny before turning back to play with Dash's dog. Gesturing defeatedly, Danny tucked his knees to his chest.

Dash critiqued, "It's because you're not confident."

"Ow." Danny retorted with jest.

"I don't mean it like that--" Baxter fumbled, worried that he did make some kind of faux pas. He was wondering when his foot would land directly in his mouth.

The ghost boy snorted, watching Dash tie himself in knots. He mollified the athlete, "You should know after some consideration I have accepted one-third of your apology. You can lighten up."

"That's… good."

"Did you think I wasn't going to?"

"If I'm honest? No. I really didn't expect to be forgiven. I'm not really... " Dash rose. Before he turned to the kitchen, Baxter studied the backyard for a moment. He squinted at the sporting equipment. Warily under his breath, "that's weird, I thought… huh."

"What?"

"I normally eat, do the dishes, take out the trash, laundry, then move my gear." Dash pointed toward the dummies.

Danny, without thinking, admitted, "oh yeah, sorry, that was me."

The quarterback looked at the equipment, then small helpless Danny Fenton. Back to the equipment. Dash wore this expression one could describe as perplexed but astounded. Baffled, he elaborated, "those things weigh a hundred pounds, with the water taken out."

Nodding sheepishly, Danny played it off, "... adrenaline?"

"... sure." The quarterback was unsure how to run with that. He bowed out, "I'm gonna get the pizza."


	15. No one forgets their first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of assault, dubious consent, possible parental neglect and social ostracization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to have another half which I'll hopefully remember to add later. I've been kind of ill, nothing too terrible but it's been difficult to focus on the other details that don't immediately concern the meat of the fic. I might have a kidney stone or something lmaooooo.
> 
> I know it's kind of a cliche-- well at least to me it's a hated cliche, but I want to formally apologize for just how much of this fic is just people eating and talking-- it's truly the most fun and easy way to give Dash the development he desperately needs.
> 
> *fixed

Tucker traipsed into the bedroom without caution, arms behind his head, "I love how Danny's parents just stopped asking questions."

"Speak for yourself, Mr Fenton just gave me the rancidest stink-eye…" Sam shut Danny's door behind them. 

Taking a running start, Tucker threw himself onto Danny’s bed after shedding his bookbag. He sighed and stretched out. 

"You get way too comfortable in other people's rooms," Sam muttered, unsure what to do with her hands. Danny kept a reasonable amount of clutter for a teenager. However, everyone could smell his laundry from the first floor. She was unsure how she should show him that she was sorry. Danny was difficult to crack since he normally didn’t stay mad for this long. Sam hated being in the position of groveling. That was her mother in her. She couldn’t stand being wrong. The Mansons’ family dinners consisted of heated debates and vicious words thrown around. Saying things that in any normal family would be cause for grounding-- but that’s how they carried on. Being angry was how you showed you cared. She thought that the love languages were for new-age hippy types or couples in dire need of counseling. 

"My back hurts trying to carry this friendship." Tucker remarked, before rolling onto his side, "So what exactly is the plan here? Sprinkle rose petals up the stairs, play a love ballad beg him to take us back-- that we've changed?"

Sam cracked open a window to oxygenate the room, "Affection makes me break out." 

"I figured I could use the emergency credit card and get into the planetarium. Sort of a late birthday-slash-apology gift," she plotted somewhat glibly, "that is if he comes back from wherever he's brooding." 

Foley closed his eyes, matter-of-factly stating, "Danny doesn't brood." 

"You're right; he sulks." Jazz had cracked the door open, leaning in. Having a sibling superhero meant there was an excess of chores. Behind every powerful man, there was a clean-up crew. It was legitimately the least she could do. Danny hadn’t spoken to her all weekend for her meddling. Which admittedly she deserved, it still made her laugh, though.

While Foley greeted her, Sam scowled, "are you here to snoop?"

"Uh… yeah? And also move Danny's clothes to the laundry room." The older Fenton gave a so-so motion, "Mostly snoop. Why are you guys here?"

Before Sam could respond, Tucker answered, "more of the same. So, it's a regular snoop d'etat." 

Jazz giggled, "oui." 

Manson gagged, "God, I would bully us right now." 

"How's the internalized misogyny disguised as outward hatred of the upper class going, Sam?" Jasmine put a hand on her hip and smiled sweetly like her assessment was only that-- an assessment. It wasn’t like Jazz and Sam loathed each other. They just happened to have absent positive feelings. 

Baring her teeth, Sam removed herself from the wall and marched toward Jazz. Until there was only a nose distance apart from each other, she hissed, "Don't shrink me." 

"You don't scare me, Sam." Jazz didn’t bristle. She remained cool-- calm and controlled. Jazz was emotionally detached but kept things professional, unlike Manson. Manson liked to keep her hair-trigger temper right under her thin skin. Sam didn’t understand Danny’s perfect robot of a sister. She could’ve been mistaken for an A-lister if she ever got the stick out of her ass. 

While Tucker didn't like conflict, a catfight, on the other hand… 

Decidedly this wasn't the time for mud wrestling. Foley got off Danny’s bed to wedge his way in between Sam and Jasmine. Instead, he focused their energy by asking, "you wouldn't happen to know where Danny is?"

"He's at Dash's house," Jazz had no reason to lie, "apparently the ghost dog is in his backyard." She leaned over Danny's computer desk, scanning for any changes since last she checked it. Jasmine got into the habit of scanning her brother’s computer for viruses from dubious websites with pin-up ads. Or if he was on drugs. Though he probably should be, realistically.

"Cujo." Sam held her chin in thought. She was… disappointed to hear that Danny blew off his friends to go-- be in some jock's shadow. If Dash did have a ghost problem, it was fortunate to hear that he had enough common sense to seek help.

He was oil, greasy and slimy. They were the water, clear, refined. Dash was a different kind of breed. It was a dog eat dog world, and well-- she didn't particularly care if Dash became a chew toy. 

Maybe that could be her gesture-- her gesture that wins back Danny’s favor. She would go over to Dash’s house and accept his olive branch and be… ugh… ‘buddies.’ She shuddered at the thought. If Dash did know, that meant he would be their ally. There were very few of those to go around. 

Foley then rubbed his palms on his sweater, tapping his biceps rhythmically, "did Danny tell you how it went with Dash at the Drive-in?"

"That's confidential," Jazz stated. It had nothing to do with the fact that Danny refused to look at her at breakfast, "what Dash and Danny have told me as a psychologist-to-be, I can't disclose it." 

Frowning, Sam noted the hypocrisy, "But you just told us where Danny was." 

Bored now with this line of questioning, Tucker began to rummage through the nightstand. Oh, there was his copy of final fantasy seven. He pocketed that. What else did Danny casually forget to return? Tony Hawk Underground? Okay, Foley didn't own that, but-- 

"He told me that as his sister. As for anything else, that would be a breach of privacy I can't condone." She said before shutting off Danny's computer. Not seeing the irony. Jasmine was satisfied with her sleuthing for the most part, despite not finding anything new. 

The older Fenton swiveled back to her brother's friends. She pulled a strand of her hair behind her ear, revealing her ball stud earrings. She unconsciously focused on Sam's black hoops. 

Maybe Jazz was too harsh. Sam didn't reject other girls. Other girls just rejected Sam, and she gave that kindness back in full. Her femininity was truly her own, and maybe Jazz was reading too deeply into Sam's multiple piercings, but it wasn't a rejection-- it was ownership. Sam was herself. She wouldn't apologize. Fashion sense wasn't Jazz's forte, which is why she thought all women were uniquely beautiful. Sam was no exception. However, Jazz had never heard Sam declare herself as someone who had beauty. 

By no means were any of these kids finished creations. They all were lumps of clay, all vaguely person-shaped. 

"Does Dash know or not?" Sam tried one more time to get a straight answer. 

Softening like microwave butter, Jasmine gave a somewhat apologetic shrug. She collected Danny’s hamper and dragged it out of the room. The basket hit the stairs, and she faded away.

Sam frustratedly stamped her foot before holding one breath back and filtered it through pursed lips. Dead end. 

Tucker, still finding more stuff to borrow, finally crouched down to the floor. With one yank, he checked the last drawer of the nightstand. He already owned those comic books. Bummer. Foley turned his head slightly, caught something out of the corner of his eye. A white sleeve with a red stripe around the wrist cuff. 

"Hey! Check it out; it's Dash's letterman!" Tucker presented the jacket from underneath the bed. Rising, he hastily put it on, flexing his non-existent muscles. 

"Oh my god," Sam groaned. Pressing her head into her hand, Manson gave him a glance of scrutiny. It was enormous on Tucker-- the coat ended at his knees. Jesus, it's the scariest Halloween costume she's ever seen. That begged the question, had Dash been in Danny's room as well?

Tucker snickered to himself while scoping the letterman in Danny's wall mirror. Unconsciously, Tucker did what he always did when putting on a jacket-- check the pockets.

Crumpled receipts, wrappers, coins… 

And a small box. 

Without taking the box out, Foley opened it. His fingers brushed along a cold piece of metal. Tucker felt the grooves in it. Curiously, he removed the metal bobble. It was a keychain, a hoop, a chain, and a silver polished chrome rocketship. 

Huh, that's weird...

* * *

Dash said his goodbyes to Cujo before he departed via the Fenton thermos. Despite insisting that he was going to cry, the quarterback kept it locked down. Danny comforted him by saying that it was nothing like Old Yeller, which didn’t stop Baxter from making the reference. Fenton went to great lengths to paint the ghost zone as this amazing place full of discoveries to be unturned. A place with no limits like the sea or outer space, totally habitable to human beings if they knew all the quirks. He would ever evict the ghosts, but he was constantly intrigued as to how they got there. Why they were there. The ghost zone was vast, desolate but ageless. Of course, Danny would say hi to Cujo for Dash when he visited. It was impossible, though-- it was impossible to Dash. A place that writers couldn’t fathom and movies could never replicate with CGI. And it was real. Danny spoke about it like it was both a threat and a tangible scenic place that should sell postcards. Like he had been there. 

Baxter thought Fenton’s far-flung dreams of being an astronaut were out there for sure-- since he was so short, there was no way he could pass the physical. Now he’s off fighting interdimensional space ghosts? Danny had quite the active imagination for someone who couldn’t get past the first pages of The Grapes of Wrath. Surely with enough passion and egg-headed science, Dash believed that Danny could set his aim as high as he wanted. That was something that they could both use more healthy doses of—absolute blind optimism. 

Listening intently, Dash let Danny ramble. Hanging on every incomprehensible word. 

Once Danny could see that exasperatedly fond smile on Dash’s face-- he seized up. He apologized, “I’m sorry-- I’m boring you, aren’t I?” 

“Nah-- not at all, Fenton,” Baxter teased and gave an even larger grin in return. Standing, he helped Danny up, “Though I think the pizza is getting cold.” 

Although Dash paid for the pizza, he didn’t partake in his half. He began his chores-- while Fenton ate. Yes, it made Danny feel extremely weird. Once Dash got going, he didn’t slow down. He ran up and down the stairs carrying huge sacks of laundry under each arm. 

Without intention, Danny posited, “don't you have a maid or something?”

The quarterback hefted the bags but steadied himself on the stairs. He seemed bothered by that, “Rebecca has a very particular way of doing things.” 

“Rebecca?” 

“My mom,” Baxter elaborated, he descended the rest of the stairs, “My stepmom. I just call her my mom because it's easier and-- well, not easier, but… it makes it less awkward." He ducked into a closet to start the washing machine.

… Danny didn't say anything. They… really didn't know anything about each other. Fenton could hardly believe this was the kid that he was scared of through most of middle school. The house rumbled with the load of laundry. Reaching behind the door, Baxter pulled down a black apron that matched his shirt. He placed it over and his neck and tied the back. It cinched tightly around his narrow waist. He moved swiftly and with so much precision, Danny wondered if this was his daily routine. 

Sprinting in front of the table, now armed with a broom and dustpan, Dash looked like a more butch Martha Stewart. Danny decided that enough was enough. He kicked out the chair across from him. The ghost boy all but demanded that Dash relax. 

"I think it's my turn to ask you some questions," Fenton said, pointing his head to the chair. There was no way he could eat comfortably with Dash buzzing around. 

Taking the chair parallel to Danny, the quarterback scooted forward to the table. He wondered if he was in trouble-- because by Danny's tone, he sounded upset. Baxter murmured an assent, "Yeah, of course, anything." 

"So, what does your stepmom do?" Danny dipped his crust in jalapeño butter before working on his third slice of pizza.

"She used to be a doctor; now I couldn't tell you what she does-- country club community board stuff. Organizes parties, I guess." 

"... do they usually leave you here by yourself?" He spoke with his mouth full. 

"Danny… I can take care of myself." The quarterback answered sardonically. He did not care to be patronized.

Fenton stared harder at the boy across from him. Crumbs falling out of his cheeks with dead seriousness.

Dash sighed, "with football practice as well as my other extracurriculars, we don't actually see each other often, no. When I do have time off, it's usually just me here." 

Danny swallowed and wiped his face, "So… do they know?" 

"Know what?" the quarterback was slightly distracted, snapping his fingers at his dog-- tsking Pookie for trying to knock over the trash. 

"Dash."

"Oh… right." He slapped his forehead, "No, as you can imagine, it hasn't come up." 

So, Danny Fenton was the only one who… knew. Who knew that Dash Baxter was gay. 

Danny laid his hands flat against the tiny round table to stop the tremors. He cautioned to ask, "Have you… always been…?"

"Gay?" the quarterback cut to the point. He thought it was odd that now Danny had a sudden aversion to the word, especially since Danny was being extremely forward at the drive-in.

"Uh… yeah." Danny drummed his fingers on the table. 

"I guess," Baxter nodded, gaining more confidence as he thought more on it, "yeah, probably." 

Danny realized that wasn't what he wanted to know. He rephrased, "Did you try being with girls b--before?"

"Yeah-- sort of…" Dash trailed off, his brow pinched together. He wiped his nose nervously. The topic made him retreat back into his chair. He confessed, "Funnily enough, my first kiss was… Sam.”

Tensing, Danny was on the verge of blocking that out. He later found out that Sam only did that to snap Danny out of some kind of cheap brainwashing. Still, he hadn't come close to fully moving on from that. It was technically his first love and his first heartbreak. It was just as cheap as the brainwashing because Danny couldn't focus on what made Sam so special as her own individual. All he could think about was how great being around her felt. It was… selfish. Every time she left his orbit, it was like she carried off the piece of him that could function. It was fruitless.

It was like shoving magnets together. They pushed back with equal force and never actually met. 

Diving into the deep end of the pool, despite not knowing how to swim, because maybe there would be a chance to pull her in too. A constant feeling of asphyxiation. That's really all Danny remembered from it, the constant chest pain and sweaty palms. It wasn't love; it was addiction.

Ember McClain was such a bitch.

Dash also seemed equally disturbed by it. Rubbing his thumb across his knuckles, he regarded Danny's pensive silence,"... yeah, you know how that turned out."

"I don't want to say that it, like-- messed me up because it's so… forever ago. But I know I didn't do anything to-- initiate it, but I felt like it was my fault." 

"I guess really what stuck with me wasn't so much the…" Dash really felt no reason to keep repeating that word. He kept his eyes on the door. He picked at a hangnail, peeling it down to his cuticle, causing a pooling of blood in his cracked nail bed. He balled his fists together as if pleading, "Everyone somehow got the idea-- I… that I had kissed her. I was the one who kissed her without asking… and I dunno everyone looked at me differently. Like I was-- I was that kind of guy who would do that to someone. The weirdest part, though, everyone just expected me to be that way.” 

Certainly, Danny had expected him to be that way. That he was some casanova type, uh-- that couldn’t be further from reality, digging this out of Dash wasn't his intention-- maybe he was expecting a humorous locker room story. Danny idly was tearing a crushed red pepper packet into pieces and rearranging them with his finger. How is he supposed to broach this?

Dash, uncomfortable with the atmosphere he created, offered, "if it's any consolation, I get to spend more time by myself." 

"You like being alone?" Danny furrowed his brow, another unexpected anomaly. Dash, while seen surrounded by clusters of friends at school-- people swarming him, the football team, parties-- Danny realized that he never saw Dash outside of school. Hanging out, like this, with another person. 

"I didn't used to." Dash grabbed the empty plate and pushed in his chair, "there's something about being alone. You get to a point where you can't stand you-- like your thoughts, stuff like that. But at the end of the day, that's all we have."

As if coming to a conclusion at that instant, the athlete declared, "So… I just went easier on myself."

Following him to the kitchen, Fenton offered, “Do you need any help? With your chores-- I mean.” he was undeniably feeling like a burden because eventually, Danny was going to have to ‘break up’ with Dash. Everything new he discovered challenged Danny’s ability to want to hurt him. Not that he ever wanted to hurt anyone, but some deserved it more than others-- and Dash didn’t. 

“Oh,” Dash shook his head, “no, I’m alright.” 

The ghost boy rolled his eyes, “Okay, then I’m not asking.” 

“Uh…” Dash blinked, before tossing Danny a dishrag, “You can dry if you’re gung-ho.” 


	16. The Ballad of Johnny Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of suicide, violence, and drugs.

_Once upon a time, there was a biker. He wouldn’t be so disillusioned as to call himself a knight. No one would call him a prince; he wasn't a looker._

_Yet the hooker he fell in love with, she was a princess. That's right. He was a John. They spent the night on a bare mattress. Some might say he was stupid, and he would agree. Though he would later rephrase to say he was just unlucky. Full bust and tight dress. Though she had no virtue left to loan, he gave her his. Promise rings on fingers-- now woefully ironic-- she didn't pawn it for lines of her favorite substance._

_The princess was trapped in her motel castle, wanting to see the world. They wouldn't get far on a motorbike. They would make do. He probably should have mentioned he skinned his dear old daddy dead-- where he stood. Now he took his little brother for the ride-- two had become three._

_It was a high beyond compare how they were just a messed-up little family-- with the wind in their hair. Riding into the sunset. A monster slain. A short happily ever after._

_Before meeting at the crossroads with a train._

Ember read and reread the Ghostwriter's poem-- if it could be even called that. She plucked a few strings on her guitar, trying to find a tune to carry the words. He had become frenzied to get rid of this particular work of his. It appeared to be causing him quite a lot of stress. He locked himself in his tower on the edge of the ghost zone, typing away. This was all that he was comfortable with sharing. Ember didn't bother to ask what happened to the rough drafts. It was no secret that the ghostwriter in his hysterics tended to destroy his work as violently as he could contain in his office. As far as she was concerned, this was a final draft. 

Annoyed with how the writer kept staring at her as she fumbled with the notes, Ember crumpled the paper, "I can't work with you looking at me like the sad dog you are." 

"This thing has positively vexed me Ms McClain. Since I wrote this poem, I have not known peace." He fussed, pacing around his desk. He approached her cautiously like an ill-tempered lioness, "I am beseeching you to find your heart, what little remains unbroken."

Leaning her head down to expose her flame, she suggested, "if this piece bothers you so much, why don't you torch it like all the other ones?" 

Ghostwriter threw himself across his desk, snatching Ember's hand in his before she set his latest work ablaze. He pleaded, "no! It isn't like the other ones! Every time I've tried to destroy it myself, something terrible happens to me." 

The pop star smirked, "like what?" 

"My shelf fell on me--!" he gasped, "then my first edition of Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court--!" Dramatically the ghostwriter squealed,"ink spilled all over it! Then and then, in my absolute horror, my pasta attacked me." 

Ghostwriter grabbed Ember's shoulders, "Mon Cheri, lovebug, apple of my eye, my heaven-sent angel, my sweet onion…" he rubbed his thumb against the ball of her shoulder, he whined, "that's not even the worst of it."

Muttering, she patted her lyricist, combing her fingers through his wispy knotted hair, "You're gonna get my threads soggy with your blubbering, Stephen."

"My love! My keyboard!" He cried in aghast, draping himself on his chaise lounge chair, "It's sticky, and the keys popped off! D-I-E! And the four key." 

Ember uncrumpling his poem, she knelt down. She cocked her head curiously, "what's so special about the four key?"

"Nothing," he groaned, turning to his partner, propping himself on his elbow, "but apparently, my mother's birthday had a four in it, so filing my taxes is going to be a nightmare-- which, by the way, I'm being audited. That's not connected to the string of poor luck involving the poem. That's just me… I'm pretty sure." 

In the writer's moments of being a troubled artist, even McClain found him to be a bit much. She was sympathetic to an extent, but it couldn't be that bad. Yes, Stephen had his moments of boredom where he did create literal hell-cats and killer crows. He created those works to be a problem for others, not himself. His writing ultimately brought him a catharsis. Ember found hers through her music, and he found his through typing diligently with bleary droopy eyes late in the night-- or early into the morning. 

"So, wait…" she began to connect the pieces, "If this thing is cursed, why did you want me to sing it?" 

Ghostwriter ran a finger across her guitar's head, "I thought that maybe if I heard you sing it, I wouldn't be so inclined to destroy it. If you sang the ballad of a tragic and devastating love, it could maybe bring me some fortune through seeing your success…" 

Ember raised her eyebrows. She didn't swoon. It was beneath her. Though maybe being mushy occasionally, like indulging in full-calorie soda, wasn't all that bad. Cradling his face in her hand, she cooed, "babe, you know I love your silly little stories-- but I can't use this because I'm not gonna lie to you; it's awful." 

He kissed the palm of her hand, smiling, exposing his fangs, "I'm wholly aware, Ms McClain." 

Suddenly she tossed the poem into her flaming hair-- 

The Ghostwriter, before he could blink, he scrambled toward her a second too late. He screamed, "NO!" 

"I just think it's all in your head, Stephen. Nothing bad is gonna happen." Ember tried to hold him down. She pressed a pillow to his face. 

Shockingly, an aspiring pop diva had way more upper body strength than a waifish shut-in auteur. After he kicked and thrashed, the poem was now a collection of ashes on his wooden manor floor.

There was a still beat… Ghostwriter clutched the velvet throw pillow to his chest, and his eyes darted around his office for what else could possibly go wrong. Then he began to note all the details of his office and how many blue books he owned. Which candles were still burning... How many countries he could identify on his globe. He counted because that was something he could control. He glanced at Ember with slightly lessened distress. Maybe it was just a random act of fate. Maybe he wasn't cursed! 

Ember gave a haughty shrug, rubbing in her point. 

Out of nowhere, a freak lightning bolt struck Stephen. Charing his chaise chair to charcoal. McClain, despite being a mere centimeters away, was left intact. She clicked her tongue, "Welp. I stand… corrected."

"I don't hold it against you, my love," he coughed, "I am prone to exaggeration like all others of my kind." 

There was a snickering from the large circular window that hung above the writer's desk. Ember turned away from her lyricist to see a greasy blond biker holding his finger like a loaded colt forty-five. 

"Johnny… I should've known you would be picking on Stephen." McClain growled, "can't stand to see anyone else happy, huh?" 

Johnny blew the smoke from his fingertip, holstering his hand in his jean pocket. He mocked, gesturing to the hoarder's nest that was the Ghostwriter's home, "you call this happy? I feel like I should donate to a charity to bring awareness for how pathetic he is." 

Looking down, Stephen grasped his own arm awkwardly. 

"Buzz off, dipstick," Ember stood up, her guitar tuned to blast his butt clear across the ghost zone.

"Tell me, Pat Benatar-- wouldn't you rather be with a real man?" 

"Like you? I'll pass, thanks." 

Thirteen scoffed, "at least I'm not some hack, who can't finish anything he starts! It'll teach him not to tell other people’s stories." 

Stephen's feet found the floor and shook his head, "what are you accusing me of--? I wrote a tribute for a murder-suicide I saw in an old newspaper." 

"It wasn't a suicide!" Johnny roared-- flaring his nostrils. Causing both the Ghostwriter and the pop star to rear back. His shadow appeared behind him, perched on his hunched-over back. It hissed. 

The biker ran a hand through his hair… he materialized the poem in his hand from the ash on the floor. He tucked it into his sleeve pocket. Johnny warned, "Don't believe everything you read." 

Ember narrowed her eyes with a lethality. If a look could be registered as a weapon… 

Shadow spat and gurgled at Johnny, who's rage had dulled. He snapped his fingers, and Shadow whimpered, rubbing its face against Johnny's hand before engulfing the biker in black tendrils-- dissolving him out of Ghostwriter's office-- swirls of scrap paper blew around the tall room, and the rest of the candles were snuffed out. 

The biker was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something different and kind of experimental. I'm no poet aficionado-- something my partner loves to make fun of me for. 
> 
> while making this fic I will admit. I went in with the mindset of like "I'm only doing this as a way to piss off Butch Hartman." Super immature-- I know. But... I really feel like I've become attached to this story. Like it somehow transcends fandom.
> 
> Though that still doesn't change the fact that Butch charges 200 dollars for traced art commissions-- LIKE WHAT.


	17. The ghosts in your neighborhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of assault, and smoking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much-- yearning...
> 
> btw y'all I made a tumblr if people wish to find it and dunk on me there and give me more ideas. I changed my pseud here so it matches my new tumblr URL, so... https://theplanetprince.tumblr.com/

When Danny felt like he had taken up a little too much of Dash's time, he left. However, it took Danny a while to convince himself that he needed to go back to his own house. Talking inconsequentially about nothing really in particular. Time flew by. 

Dash could've taken the opportunity to ask Danny about his relationship history, but he didn't. 

The quarterback was in a league all his own. There really wasn't anyone to compare himself to. He gathered at least at one point Danny and Sam were a thing-- or Sam and Tucker. Or Tucker and Danny? Or Tucker, Sam, and Danny were together all at once. It didn't really matter. Dash had never really been in a relationship; he couldn't tell you what they looked like. For as far as he knew right now, he was on a second date. Washing dishes in his kitchen and debating which horror movie villain would win in a fight. It was all romantic to him. 

Godzilla won only through technicality-- Danny rested his case. In case you were wondering. 

There was something romantic about the clumsiness of it all. Danny was the one who so casually joked about being out-- out of the closet. Danny joked about kissing Dash because he was that comfortable with who he was. That was a bravery, which Dash borrowed to ask Danny to the drive-in. It was cyclical how they fed off each other. Both scared-- terrified even, yet they glued their broken pieces to each other to make a coherent image. Everything appeared like it came easy to Danny. Little did the quarterback back know, Fenton looked at him and thought the exact same thing. In each other's eyes, they were perfect, though they would never say it out loud. 

Whether that was because they both lacked the eloquence-- or if they were so unconvinced that what they were thinking was worth burdening the other with. 

Cranking the stereo, they sang along badly to the classic rock station while they worked. Baxter was at first concerned with how cold Danny was. Then he found himself looking forward to those odd brushes where his soap-covered fingers nicked Fenton’s. He couldn't explain why it was comforting. It was something uniquely Danny Fenton that Dash couldn't help but find endearing. After all, if the nerd was cold all the time, that gave Dash the excuse to bug him about it. Or… hold his hand to keep him warm. At least for a little while. 

Was this the moment? Was he supposed to make the first move? The quarterback found himself wondering quietly. As much as he thought about kissing Danny, since they became gym partners, he never nailed down the specifics. Now felt like as good of a time as any. 

  
They had been inching closer together over the course of the evening.

Danny had that lopsided smug smirk on his face that he usually got before telling a terrible pun. He could only helplessly stare at how Fenton had trouble reaching the ceiling-high cupboards to put away the wine glasses. Danny had this stubborn insistence that he could handle it. Baxter realized he could spend the rest of his life like this. He could frame this on a wall. This is what he wanted. Dash wanted someone to be there next to him. Someone to share the load… of dishes. 

He leaned over, taking the glasses from Fenton, and placed them on the highest cupboard. Baxter was tempted to use Fenton as a chin rest. It was comical how Dash had the higher voice, but he shot up like a tree, and yet Danny well-- he was between pinned Dash and the counter trying to reach for the glasses-- which Dash was holding barely out of his grasp. 

Then Sam popped in his head. 

_‘How could you?’_

_‘--Get away from_ **_her_ ** _!’_

Dash withdrew, going back to the sink. There was a very noticeable change in his physicality. It took him a bit, but Danny saw it. The quarterback did nothing but chime in whenever Danny asked where a utensil went. Dash’s stepmom apparently owned more than one type of fork. Thirty-five to be accurate. For all sorts of things, lobsters, oysters… it was so silly that houses got torn through-- ghosts ran amok taking appliances and formed mecha-robots. Yet Dash’s stepmom had the time to check when a fork had the correct amount of tines. 

The sink was drained and rinsed. Dash still hadn’t sat down to eat, and Danny left. He left-- said something about school. Dash didn’t catch it since his heart was beating right against his ears. Then the athlete was alone. Only his thoughts and four walls. Back in his prison of a house that he no longer felt comfortable in. He had let go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He was relieved. He was relieved to have the hole in his chest again. It was at least a punishment. He had to hurt because he hurt Danny; that was how it should be. That's what made it fair. 

Danny made him feel too normal. 

There was so much baggage-- and there was no way Fenton was strong enough to take it to the curb. 

He popped the top on a water bottle before retiring to the couch. Pookie automatically jumped into his lap. Rubbing his dog’s ears, Dash mumbled, “You wanna bet they’re not coming home?” 

  
  


So he grabbed the remote, “Let’s just catch up on The Bold and The Insomniacs, huh? Or we could watch Casablanca again… The Town That Dreaded Sundown? Sound good?” 

Pookie sluggishly wagged his tail. Not knowing what at all his master was saying. Happy to know that the turmoil in Dash’s gut briefly subsided regardless. 

* * *

The sun had gone down, and the walk back to Fentonworks was quick. Surprisingly the ghosts had been dormant the rest of the weekend. Johnny was off somewhere licking his wounds and nursing his Shadow back to its former gory glory. He kept a tight grip on the thermos. Johnny didn’t seem like a responsible pet owner. Cujo didn’t really have a master. Danny liked to think he was the closest to the ghost dog, but even he wasn’t immune to being bitten. He figured it was best to keep Cujo kenneled until Danny iced Johnny good and proper. He couldn’t fathom why the biker would be so interested in-- caring for another thing. Granted, Johnny was more than likely used to throwing himself at an unreceptive audience. Johnny could hardly keep his hands to himself or even remotely close to his high-strung girlfriend, Kitty. 

Danny spoke to the device, “Do you think that’s why he wants you? To scare off his girlfriend?” 

“I resent that,” A voice spoke up.

Now a blue wisp left Fenton’s mouth-- of course. The switch was instantaneous since no one happened to be driving on the street at the moment. He formed a white-gloved fist, “When it rains, it pours…” 

“You’re telling me!” 

The Phantom ascended off the ground and took a survey of the road-- No ghost of evil ex-girlfriends past-- Then a rain puddle by the storm drain started to glow. 

“Wow, finally taking on a vessel that matches your personality?” Danny rolled his eyes. Thankfully she hadn’t found her tangible form yet. She seemed to have a harder time finding natural exits from the ghost zone. Kitty usually had Johnny help her, but perhaps their on-and-off-again relationship landed firmly in the off camp. 

She was applying a hefty amount of lipstick to her face. She paused, “Huh?” 

Fenton crossed his arms, “I’m calling you shallow.” 

“... Then just say that instead of dressing it up in dweeb,” Kitty went back to adjusting her make-up. 

Flustered that one of his bad guys finally came back with a good one-- he stuttered out, “Ye--yeah? You do any cradle-robbing lately?” 

“Oof-- you got me, slugger.” She closed her compact she went into her makeup pouch for her eyelash curler, “I like younger guys. Any other scathing burns in the chamber or…?” 

“... No,” the ghost boy stuck his tongue out. Kitty was persnickety, sure--! She had an attitude, but she typically was coy to the point of rage-inducing. Kitty didn’t expose her claws so early. 

“Good,” She stretched her lower eyelid downward, “Now, you're gonna shut up and let a lady speak, alright? Have you seen my Johnny?” 

Realizing that this was only a social inquiry, Fenton powered down and landed on the sidewalk, “Not lately, no.” He then pointed to Kitty’s purse, “ but he owes my buddy twenty bucks for ruining the movies on Saturday.” 

Kitty opened her pocketbook, “Ghost cash or ghost credit?” then facetiously punctuated, “Oh wait-- I don’t care.” 

“Classy, real classy Kitty.” 

“Thanks, squirt, I try.” She tossed her permed hair over her shoulder before the shininess of her eyes ultimately betrayed her coldness. Tears were forming in her smokey crimson pupils. Then he saw the poorly hidden mascara tracks down her cheeks. She had been sobbing. Danny felt his sympathy creep up his throat, causing his mouth to run dry. Kitty would outright refuse his help, stating: that she didn't trust 'cops,' so why would she trust a teenager masquerading as one. 

Reflecting on his earlier conversation with Jazz about how people in positions of power tend to be asshats-- Danny felt that was slander and character assassination to the highest degree. 

Instead, Danny continued as normal since he didn't feel comforting her would serve anything to make her comfortable. He didn't like seeing girls cry. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, "I haven't seen Johnny, but I am looking for him… so I'll let you know if I hear anything." 

Uncomfortably she fidgeted away from the one-way portal. Kitty sucked her teeth, "thanks…"

"If he comes back, I'll give him hell for you, kid." 

Danny couldn't help but latch onto that. He crouched closer to the puddle, searching for Kitty's humanity. He said, "If? It's Johnny. It's inevitable that you guys are-- like together. For all your fighting, he really is crazy about you. If you guys weren't always trying to kill me, I'd go for you guys for how to make a relationship last-- for what… forty years?" 

“Do you know why Johnny would want…?” Danny shook the Fenton thermos. He felt bad for outing Johnny’s ‘surprise’ but-- “Why was Johnny trying to get Cujo?” 

She made a face, her nose wrinkling, “Is that what he’s been missing for five days for? Chasing a mutt around?” 

Kitty said it as though she had absolutely had no idea what Danny was talking about. She didn't seem like a pet-person either. So Johnny was out in the living world doing some freelance dog-catching on the side? For what? Obviously, Kitty wasn't into it, but Johnny never seemed to know what his girlfriend wanted. Danny figured out that women were pretty complicated, but usually, about animals, they were explicit. Whatever Johnny was doing Kitty didn't seem involved. In fact, she was about as confused as The Phantom and Cujo. Johnny was typically attached at the hip to his partner, so a week of leave did raise some concern. People go missing. Ghosts... don't. Who was Kitty supposed to go to? When she was reminded of his absence every time she heard the whine of an engine.

Out of nowhere, the ghost began to wistfully muse-- 

"If I was alive, I could've been… someone in your neighborhood." Kitty puckered her lips and nodded bitterly to keep up her brave face. She indeed died too young-- if Danny was to guess-- early twenties. Twenty-two. Kitty dressed a lot like how his mom did when she was in college… 

If Kitty were alive, she probably would around his mother’s age. They could’ve been friends. She could’ve been someone’s fun-aunt.

Danny hummed, "--In your neighborhood. In your neighborhood." 

The ghost scoffed. She stared past Danny, gesturing to the power lines above his head, “ I recognize this place; I used to come here on the weekends with my family… I always thought I was going to move up in the world… get a place here. Maybe.” She removed a carton of cigarettes from her bag, “Suppose that’s all life is… just a bunch of ambitious maybes.” 

“Those things will kill you, yknow,” He quipped, to keep some levity between them.

“Something has to.” She mumbled, lighting up her smoke with her thumb. Taking a drag and she exhaled, “You probably have no reason to listen to me, but I hope you realize what you have before you lose it.” 

He found himself retaking the defensive-- just because he was half-human, that didn’t mean he needed the lecture of how hard it was to die. As far as he knew, he already lost it. He’s lost sleep, blood, tears, friends, relationships, his family-- He’s lost everything, and the hardest part about it was that he was supposed to act grateful that it isn’t any worse. He was tired of being pitied. It was a currency he couldn’t use to buy back his old life. Before Danny could jump on her for dismissing him, she blew a waft of smoke that covered her side of the rain puddle-- severing her connection to the human plane. 

The phantom kicked the puddle and crossed the street. 


	18. Where Does a Frog Learn How to Drive a Hearse Anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially out of my creative juice. I apologize for this chapter's quality as well as the rushed ending for the last chapter. So I'm gonna go recuperate for a spell. Come back to this fic with fresh eyes next month. I'm not happy with a few of the chapters, but I'm so glad you all are enjoying the story so far! It really means a lot to me! and the 200 plus kudos for one of my first fics is legit so inspiring and nice to see. That being said I'm thinking about applying to the danny phantom fic and art bang, the Invisobang I think it's called. this experience with you guys has really given me a lot of confidence to be more active! Even though after a week I'm righteously tired. 
> 
> Not to plug my Tumblr again but if you guys do want to get ahold of me and see what I'm up to, I did make a Tumblr exclusively for my fic presence.   
> https://theplanetprince.tumblr.com/

“OH MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU DO TO DASH’S JACKET?” 

Sam snapped the thread with her teeth-- “Made it purty.” She patted and brushed the embroidered patch of an extremely neutral frog driving a flaming hearse. 

“Why can’t either of you--” Fenton was too strangled for words, “ugh! Dash is going to kill me.” 

“Because we fixed a tear in the sleeve by covering it with a bitchin’ patch?” Manson clapped and directed, “Tucker give us a turn.” 

Tucker strutted towards his friend with comical confidence that he could take down a Gucci model from the runway. What shame? Have you learned anything about these kids? He posed-- making sure the collar was tall. Removing his glasses and beret, Foley squared up his shoulders. He puffed up his chest, pitching up his voice, throwing a fake punch to Danny, “Yo! Think fast, Fentina!” 

Automatically, Danny registered Tucker’s fist coming toward him-- and blocked it. Fenton used Tucker’s weight against him and put his wrist into a hold, trapping it on the small of his friend’s back. 

“Too fast! Uncle! Uncle!” Tucker cried. 

He released, freeing Foley from his kung-fu grip. Thank you, mom, for the regifted women’s self-defense boot camp DVD-- surprisingly versatile for every situation. Including but not limited to when your friends are tools, Danny mumbled through an apology before switching back to being cross, “Wh-- what am I supposed to tell him? That you guys wanted to do arts and crafts on his letterman?” 

Putting away her traveling sewing kit back into her bag, Sam repeated, “I fixed a tear, I didn’t have any spare fabric, so--” she bounced her shoulders, “Ipso facto, patch.” 

Fenton yawned. The late nights are catching up to him… not to mention he has to go on Johnny watch after everyone else went to sleep. He was still irritated and grumbled through it, “What do you mean a tear?” 

While rubbing his wrist, Tucker complained, “We got bored waiting for you to come back, so we were gonna…” 

“Clean your room,” Sam interjected. 

“Yeah, yeah--” Foley made note of the floor and collected his glasses from his shirt, “we were going to clean up for Dungeons and Dragons. I found Dash’s jacket under the bed.” Tucker lifted his arm-- showing off the offending patch, covering the spot between brachialis and triceps brachii. 

The goth then grinned wolfishly, “Speaking of which, how did Dash’s jacket claw itself off him and hide away under your bed? Did it scratch at your door or…? Did he leave it in a box on the porch?” 

“...You’ll find that it's none of your business.” Danny crossed his arms, glowering. 

Sam took a seat in Danny’s rolling chair, her smile deflating along with her posture-- clearly, both Fentons were in no mood for jokes. She crossed her legs at the ankles, “There was blood on the sleeve.” 

_ What?  _

Sure, it was pretty hairy at the drive-in. Sure-- but it's always like that. Amity Park’s citizens were infinitely more versed in ghost attacks than the average town. They had been doing ghost drills since the start of this year. Danny had shoved Dash out of the way! He… 

There was no way it could have been  _ that  _ close, right? 

He was with Dash for the entire afternoon. He didn't say a word about being hurt! Dash just talked about…

Danny’s teeth found his cheek. He was such an idiot! 

Externally Danny’s eyes had been darting around and-- in Sam’s words of observation, “Okay, do you want to explain the face journey you’re on right now?” 

“... I--” He began to scratch his own arm where the rip in the jacket was, “I didn’t know about the tear. Or the blood.” 

Seeing how perfectly destroyed Danny appeared in that moment, Sam lifted her head, becoming quite concerned. 

“Can you please just tell us what happened on Saturday?” Tucker swapped the jacket for his beret and returned the jacket to Danny. 

“Well, the usual happened. I went somewhere, and ghosts attacked,” Fenton took the jacket-- studying the patch. It was at least angled toward the back of the jacket, so maybe no one would notice. Danny certainly didn’t amongst all the influx of emotion that night. He was a jinx.

“We talked, the movie started-- Cujo appeared, then Johnny showed up-- apparently he wants Cujo. Cujo really likes Dash-- Dash has a dog, did you guys know that?” the ghost shook his head, “either way, Johnny’s shadow split Dash’s car down the middle. So, that’s not going to the auto show anytime soon. I shoved him out of the way, or so I thought-- I thought I did.” 

He kept mumbling that, it as if that meant anything now. 

“...I beat Johnny, but he got away. Which in hindsight,” Danny growled, “I should’ve knocked his teeth straight.” 

He sighed, “It was cold. Dash gave me his letterman. We went our separate ways.” 

“That’s it?” Sam cocked her head, “we’ve been squabbling over this? I thought we were talking about the fate of the group here?” 

“Hey-- I didn’t start it,” Danny sneered. 

The pressure kept building and compounding on itself-- Tucker finally screamed, “SHUT UP! The both of you! Good lord! None of this matters! Dash doesn’t know, right? That's the important part.” 

Slowly Fenton agreed. 

“So, why did he take you to the drive-in?” Sam was honestly at a loss; if Dash didn’t know about the phantom, why was he acting so weird? Sam knew Dash’s type; she was supposed to be like him. Someone who’s every social interaction was a feign ploy to gain influence over others. However, that would imply that Dash was smart enough to make a good social network on his parents' behalf. 

She blinked, before chuckling, “Wait, wait-- so he took you alone to the drive-in for a movie marathon… so are you saying that he was trying to get into your pants?” 

Danny opened his mouth to respond but could only manage an awkward throat clear. He adjusted his stance slightly and wished to stop being the center of attention.

"Oh my god, no," Sam's face fell. 

Tucker found himself trading looks between his two friends. Confused, Foley demanded, "What? What!?" 


	19. The Bends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight warnings for light homophobic/sexist jokes and talking points, as well as slight objectification of Star. Mostly for comedic purposes, I don't condone it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey-- super long chapter. I'm deeply sorry for trying to keep the nature of the source material intact, but hopefully, it's not too bad. I mostly wanted to use it as a lens to explore my feelings of internalized homophobia from when I was a youngin. That being said, I kinda want to hear your predictions for what's going to happen next.

"Dash, could we have a word?" Kwan anxiously approached Dash at his locker.

Dash was putting his library books away. He gave his friend a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. Abruptly Dash said, "Malarkey." 

The linebacker scratched his head. 

"All yours." Baxter turned to leave for class, "See ya." 

Kwan grabbed Dash by the back of his shirt and reeled him back. Kwan looked into Dash's eyes, unsure where his best friend was. He had been acting off for some time, "You're the captain of the team--! You're missing practices, and when you do show up, you're late, or you leave early. The guys are going to see that as a weakness." 

Grimacing-- Dash had made the mistake of confiding in Kwan. Who usually, through no malice, ended up making Dash regret opening his mouth most of the time. Having been conditioned by the other populars, Kwan had this unintentional backhanded way of highlighting Dash's insecurities. It was really a testimony to how well the A-listers were raised. Baxter hated being called weak. 

Continuing to hammer it in, the linebacker poked Dash in the chest, "you need to get it locked down if we're going to win the championship next week." 

"..." Dash was somewhat offended that Kwan, of all people, was speaking to him as if he didn't know how much weight was on his shoulders. He couldn't be mad. If this was last year and if the situation was reversed-- Dash would have been peeved too. He suggested, "Why don't you take over?" 

"Huh?" 

Baxter coaxed, attempting to cajole his friend into thinking he came up with the idea all by himself, "You should be captain. I mean, you get along better with the guys; they like you.” 

"...you're really not acting right." Kwan reiterated with genuine worry disguised as vitriol, "are you, like, sick or something? Like sick-sick? How many months do you got?" 

"I'm fine," the quarterback bristled, shirking out of Byun’s grip. 

Eventually, after enough interrogative staring, Kwan gave up, “I know you’re already preppin’ for wrestling season. The weight class stuff makes you real crabby…” he excused on Baxter’s behalf.

“Can you just show up with your jersey and pretend to be not a huge pain in the ass?” 

“I think I can manage it.” Dash tugged on his backpack.

In an exasperated huff, Kwan departed in the opposite direction. It was getting close to the bell, and Dash glanced up at the hallway clock debating on whether or not he should just ditch… he spun on his heel, nearly crashing into a smaller student.

"Fenton-- sheesh…!" 

Danny had been standing behind the football players waiting for his turn to speak. Danny was holding Dash’s letterman with both hands. Fenton had a habit of sneaking up on people. It was a little freaky, though, really. It just displayed how awkwardly polite he could be. Just waiting to interrupt instead of just going ahead and doing it.

"Uh, hey," He had a furrowed brow. 

Dash exhaled, "Hey." 

…

…

…

Okay, neither of them actually thought through what else to say. In truth, they didn't have anything to say to each other. Dash felt that he may have been coming on too strong. He needed to give Danny more space. He needed to cool off. He seriously can't be around Danny if all he can think about is-- uh… that very specific unit in health class. Bananas. That was an accident waiting to happen. 

Danny, meanwhile, knew he needed to apologize for Dash's arm; otherwise, the guilt would literally eat him from the inside out. From the conversation he did overhear, it sounded like his performance on the team had been suffering. He couldn't believe Dash didn't tell him-- yeah, the whole 'I like you' thing, total walk in the park for the guy, but when it came to getting help-- God, it was like pulling teeth! The more Danny thought about it. He was a little angry that Dash didn't think to even mention it. Maybe because when you got hurt, you were supposed to tell someone! The irony had yet to dawn on the ghost boy. 

After the pair of them were the only souls left, not in class after the halls cleared. They still hadn't moved or said anything else to each other. 

Fenton finally crossed his arms with some disappointment, "So, you weren't gonna tell me about your arm?" 

"... what about my arm?" Dash hadn't expected another accusatory dialog within three minutes of the last one. 

Danny had some difficulty not raising his voice, "uh hello! The drive-in! That ghost slashed you!" 

The quarterback was confused a lot-- but that didn't seem to do him justice right now. He was flummoxed. Dash rolled up his black t-shirt sleeve, revealing his robust bicep was covered in a thin layer of white sports tape. It was barely anything. It was just a flesh wound that he treated with stuff that he normally carried around in his gym bag. Dash clarified, "this cut?" 

"Yes! I can't believe you didn't tell me you got injured." 

Did Danny think in football, the players were just tickling each other? 

"Because… it's not an injury." Baxter rolled his sleeve back down, "It's barely a scratch. Like yeah, it could've been a lot worse, but I've cracked my head open before." 

"Holy-- !" Danny exclaimed, "How?! During a ghost attack?!" 

"...I've also had surgery on my foot." Dash kind of wanted to see how stirred up he could make Fenton. It was true that Dash had a few odd scars, but Danny was acting like people couldn't get hurt without being on death's door or something… 

"But you're walking around like your fine!" Danny had taken that bait, hook line, and sinker. 

"My dad works in insurance," the quarterback reminded, he then relaxed his arm on his hip, snorting, "I appreciate the concern, but I know enough about sports medicine to deal with bumps and bruises. I had to set Dale's dislocated shoulder once-- dude, he screamed like a b--"

Appearing from the perpendicular hall, Mr Lancer called out, "bunnies have a devastating death call, Mr Baxter. You were going to say 'bunny', and not anything else?

Both boys startled upon hearing their English teacher's distinctive baritone voice call for them down the hall.

"I suggest you get a move on, kids." 

In unison, both students mumbled, "yes, sir." 

Before they separated from each other, Danny put his fists out with Dash's letterman, pressing it into Baxter's chest, "don't be too mad." 

And went left for the computer lab without further explanation. 

Dash's letterman looked brighter-- the dust from the drive-in was gone. It smelled distinctly not like stale Fritos. Which definitely meant Danny had washed it for him. It was a weirdly touching gesture. It had been a long time since Dash had someone fret over him...

Wait! Crap, crap--!

Hastily checking the pockets of the jacket. Sure enough, they were cleared of all the trash he normally kept in the pockets. However, amongst that trash, Baxter kept Danny's birthday gift in a tiny wrapped box. It was a keychain depicting the Friendship Seven rocket flown by John Glenn. 

Dash's original plan for their first date was to go to the movies and walk Danny back up to his door. He was going to say some cheesy segue into how the gift of friendship could last a lifetime, but in the case of the Friendship Seven, it lasted exactly four hours, fifty-five minutes, and twenty-three seconds. Just enough time to orbit the planet three times before splashing down. Of course, things never go as planned. 

Shaking out the letterman vigorously, Dash couldn't find it. 

This ultimately pointless scavenger hunt made the addition of the patch covering the hole in his jacket all the more jarring. It was a frog, with large ping-pong ball crossed eyes dissociating while peeling out in a flaming hearse. The hearse said, 'go for broke until I croak.'

… He was still flummoxed but in an entirely new direction. 

* * *

Entering Falluca's computer lab for advanced physics, Danny sidled in, attempting to open the door with as little noise as possible. The teacher was hunched over his desk, checking off the attendance list—none of the students that saw Danny felt particularly troublesome today and ignored him. 

Clinging to the wall, Danny kept sidestepping toward his spot near the back of the lab. Tucker waved to his friend. The computer chair creaked as Fenton took his seat. 

Falluca sighed through his nose, "pleasure for you to join us Mr Fenton." 

"So close," He swore under his breath. 

"Not close enough, I'm afraid." The teacher folded the attendance slip and clicked his pen with a derisive intent, "I leave you to figure out the assignment from your classmates."

Despite it being advanced physics, it didn't take Einstein to know they were doing the same simulation problems and studying refractions. Same equations, different day. After punching in his student log-in credentials, there was a noticeable interference. The fans in the computer tower kicked into high gear. Ugh, slow piece of crap. 

_Ctrl + Shift + Esc_

_Ctrl + Shift + Esc_

_Ctrl + Shift + Esc_

_Ctrl + Shift + Esc_

_CtrlShiftEscCtrlShiftEscCtrlShiftEscCtrlShiftEscCtrlShiftEscCtrlShiftEscCtrlShiftEsc--_

"Hey, take it easy, Danny; these dinosaurs can't take that kind of abuse," Tucker whispered out of the side of his mouth. 

Danny sarcastically leaned back in his chair. Holding his hands up, so he didn't receive a wrist slap from Foley, the technophile, for beating up the hardware.

The dynamic duo had a night of mockery at the expense of Danny, who somehow found himself trapped by his strongest foe yet-- burgeoning homosexual love. Undeniably Danny was a bit sore-- 

In more ways than one, Tucker had joked. Rimshot. Tip your waitresses; he's here all week. 

Danny had become understandably frustrated that his friends weren't exactly handling the situation with the maturity it deserved. But how could they? They're high schoolers. If it was on the other foot, Danny would think it's hysterical. He could hardly see the comedy between juggling his own secret identity and someone else's. 

Of course, Manson and Foley lent their total support in making fun of it. Danny hadn't really given any thought to how he was supposed to get out of it. He couldn't help but get the same knot in his throat when he thought about deep-sea diving. If you were reckless in trying to scramble back to the surface of the water, the pressure would hurt infinitely worse than anything you could fathom. 

Yes, the group now was fundamentally playing with the full deck of information, but Danny definitely preferred it when they didn't know. At least then, he wouldn't be referred to as "the girl" in this hypothetical relationship. 

Sam then pointed out that Danny wasn't the girl in the relationship because Danny didn't own an apron. And the hits kept on coming. Boom! 

The Manson and Foley comedy album: coming to nowhere, no time soon. 

Annotating his findings from the simulation, Tucker scratched his nose, "I wonder if this means Star's available again."

The ghost boy has been staring holes at the frozen wallpaper-- half paying attention, "What about Star?" 

"She's dating Dash, right?" 

"I don't even think Star is on his radar."

"Well, obviously," Tucker smirked, "but that isn't what I heard."

"Gossip, seriously?" Danny clicked his monitor on and off, repeatedly-- getting antsy to start his work.

Foley tapped the table with the eraser head of his pencil-- wanting to say something, "Please, just between us girls." 

The ghost boy scowled but acquiesced since Tucker wouldn't shut up about a hot girl if his life depended on it. He begrudgingly uttered, "Between us girls." 

Tucker excitedly explained as quietly as he could manage, "So okay-- Star had been crushin' on Dash since freshman year. Since she moved up in cup size--"

"It’s disturbing how you know that." 

"Apparently, he had been giving her the run-around. Dash had been giving a honey like Star the run-around. That's wild, right? He's been giving her all these excuses, even though she's like-- basically throwing herself at him. And it didn't make any sense to me, until last night, that is." 

Danny elicited a fake gasp, "Fascinating." 

"I know, right!" Tucker blustered, "but what's crazy though, Monday before lunch during study hall, Dash had agreed to go to dinner with her and her parents." 

"So?" Danny asked, focusing on his own reflection on the black computer screen. He held down the power button on the tower. He was a few seconds away from just unplugging it. 

"So… what I'm thinking he's cheating on you. With Star," Tucker wrung his hands together, deviously, " Which means you need to come forward so that I can console her." 

Fenton blinked… he found himself nauseous. Even as a joke, that was too far. Danny voiced his disapproval immediately, "haven't you guys learned anything? You can't just respect people's secrets when it's convenient for you." 

"I-- I didn't mean it like that. I was kidding. But I just found it coincidental that Star and Dash were shacking up, despite him…" The nerd searched for an appropriate euphemism, "playing for the same team." 

"He's not 'shacking' up with Star…" 

Danny rephrased, trying to sound less bothered than he felt, "What Dash does is the least of my concern. I'm just glad he didn't hurt himself at the drive-in." 

Fenton finally got his mouse to move across the screen after re-entering his log-in. He started up the necessary programs for the assignment for his three-dimensional simulation. 

A notification informed him that his school inbox had a new email. The email appeared to have been sent from Danny to himself using the school's server. It was highly unusual. Subject line: "Johnny."

Well, that couldn't be any more of a bad sign.

**_"To Boy Ghost,_ **

**_Pray that th1s corr3spon1)3nc3 f1n1)s you._ **

**_Go1) 1n h3av3n h3lp you 1f th1s corr3spon1)3nc3 f1n1)s you, boy ghost._ **

**_Johnny 13 has tak3n charact3rs from my k3yboar1) mak1ng progr3ss on my nov3ls 1mposs1ble. Not to m3nt1on unprof3ss1onal. F3ar that h3 w1ll tak3 mor3. Ask1ng as your n3ar mur1)3r31) humbl3 s3rvant, just1c3 r3ma1ns 1n your han1)s. Oh p1ty m3, may your h3art b3 mov31) b3for3 1 r1p 1t out of your ch3st._ **

**_Awa1t1ng your r3ply,_ **

**_R3gar1)s,_ **

**_GHOSTWR1T3R."_ **

After taking a moment to read it, Fenton knew there was very little he could do about the Ghostwriter's issue at the moment. He closed the email window. Only to have it pop open again. And again. Covering the screen in window after window of the email-- as if taunting him. Yanking the computer's plug from the extension cord linking the other computers, the screen dimmed. Fenton breathed a sigh of relief. 

Danny's computer then auto-ignited-- combusting in a ball of blue flame. Students hit the deck, some screamed-- while Mr Falluca appeared to be knee-deep invested in this morning's crossword.

Tucker raised his hand, "uhhhh, Mr Falluca-- it happened again!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To Boy Ghost, 
> 
> Pray that this correspondence finds you.
> 
> God in heaven help you if this correspondence finds you, boy ghost.
> 
> Johnny Thirteen has taken characters from my keyboard making progress on my novels impossible. Not to mention unprofessional. Fear that he will take more. Asking as your near murdered humble servant, justice remains in your hands. Oh pity me, may your heart be moved before I rip it out of your chest.
> 
> Awaiting your reply,  
> Regards,  
> GHOSTWRITER."


	20. Green Eyed Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I've written 107 plus pages for this ship...   
> This was supposed to be five chapters tops-- ohohoho I've spiraled out of control. From here on out, I'm going to try to give you longer chapters so this story doesn't get too ridiculous, I'm going to also start combining some earlier chapters together for readability. I do have betas I swear, but collectively we're four parts of one whole idiot.

One upside of the computer lab catching fire meant that advanced physics got to break early. The students were released into the gym because of the fire. Sam broke away from her mythologies studies class after her head was counted. The trio nestled toward the back near all the nets and floor padding. Not exactly under the bleachers but adjacent.

"Eyebrows can grow back, right?" Tucker tutted while staring intently at his friend's face.

Sam idly sketched out on her notebook, holding it up to Fenton's face for reference, "maybe we can rebuild them…" 

Danny gave an extremely long and drawn-out slow clap, "I know you're trying to get a rise out of me…" 

"No, if we wanted to do that, we would probably bring up the fact that…" Sam snapped her fingers, giving Tucker a cue. They clearly had put some thought and rehearsal into how they were going to torment their friend.

"WE KNOW SOMEONE WHO LIKES YOU!" The pair chimed in with a sing-songy effect. 

Fenton furrowed his brow, "Are you guys done?"

"I don't think it's going to get old anytime soon," Tucker said with little breath and voice crack. 

"Har har…" Danny glanced over his shoulder. No one was approaching. The troublemakers had this amazing ability to be gone and not missed. The teachers were distracted by keeping the other students in line and separated. The A-list girls were in their respective clump. Paulina, Star, Ashleigh, Mia, Brittney… and Dash made six. 

They were standing in a circle, Star being… really close to Dash. She was nuzzling her heavy bronzer on the white of Dash's letterman. The girls were hanging on every word from Dash as he appeared to be cracking some jokes. 

Danny swallowed a growing lump in his throat. Certainly, he was uncomfortable on Dash's behalf. The quarterback had issues with being touched clearly. And on his wounded arm no less. It bothered Danny that Dash had to pretend too.

What's with him always playing the hero?

Sam whistled-- “Hello… ground control to Major Tom, are we coming in clear?” 

“Yeah-- yeah, wh-what were we talking about?” 

“The Ghostwriter making an appearance?” She leaned against the wall. 

“Right...” Danny grumbled, “So, from my knowledge, this is the second incident in Johnny’s little rampage. First, he sends Cujo to the humans, which by the way-- I haven’t put him back in the ghost zone yet, with Johnny still on the loose. So I’m asking you both to please be mindful of the thermos catch and release buttons. Now he’s apparently stolen keys off of Ghostwriter’s keyboard, forcing him to type in... “ He was faltering for the word, “what did you call it Tucker?”  
  
“Leet speak.” Foley assessed. 

“Right,” Danny removed the thermos from his backpack, “I’m thinking we can kill several large birds with one heavy stone. Use Cujo to track the keys down, and that leads me to Johnny, or we cause a big enough blip, and Johnny comes to us.” 

“Ugh, gross, a fetch quest.” 

Sam snorted, “So-- what you’re saying is you want to let out two power players, like Cujo and the Ghostwriter-- after another heavy hitter like Johnny Thirteen? That sounds like absolute anarchy and chaos…” she gave a wicked smile, “I’m in.” 

“Ghostwriter has extreme agoraphobia.” Danny turned his head over his shoulder once again to keep a lookout and maybe check on Dash. The ground was beginning to thin out as Lancer announced the all-clear. Star still hadn’t let go, and Dash well… Dash appeared to be putting an arm around her waist. The girls spoke excitedly amongst each other now, posing with their hands in the air flapping their wrists. 

What the hell was Dash doing? 

Danny scrunched up his nose before returning to his own world. What Dash did was none of his business-- Danny wanted to wash his hands of it. It's not like they were actually 'together.’ Danny was only playing along to spare his feelings after all. So if Dash naturally moved on-- whatever. None of his business. Just that PDA is gross, that’s all. 'I mean yeah, you’re in a relationship; no need to be a slut about it-- god.'

“he’s going to be more of a help than a hindrance.” Danny added, ”Or probably more of a hindrance to us than a help to Johnny. He hasn’t been out of the ghost zone in decades. We don’t have to keep him on a tight leash as much as he already gifted us one.” 

“How does a ghost have agoraphobia?” Sam was in disbelief-- she was hoping to see a big display of power from what she’s heard. This was the same Ghostwriter that made Danny see the true meaning of Christmas or whatever-- so she had to imagine that was quite the gift. The whole harnessing his imagination and throwing people into books-- he’s apparently a homebody. Manson pouted, “that’s lame…” 

“I guess it's not agoraphobia per se. It's more like he has so many other fears that it adds up to where he never leaves his house. I don’t know how many other phobias he has-- there’s not a ghost pharmacist, so I couldn’t tell you if he was medicated.” Danny propped up some loose netting that was falling on him. His eyes flashed their warning signal-- bright emerald green. For half a second at most, his eyes were green. The universal alert for Manson and Foley that Danny was upset. 

Leaning to see what was distracting his friend, Tucker scanned the departing crowd, “Do you want to share with the class, Daniel?” 

That Star was putting her hand in Dash’s back pocket? No, he had nothing to say on that front. Nothing at all.

“Hm? No, I’m just--” 

“Tired?” Sam had heard the lecture enough times; she rolled her eyes. 

“Yeah,” He sighed; finally, something got through to his friends. Fenton got away from the netting wall and began his meander to his next class, “So I guess I’ll take the Fenton speeder and ‘escort’ his ‘excellency’ the Ghostwriter from his manor, and hopefully, we put this to bed by--” 

As Danny was emerging from the bleachers, a blur of red and white appeared and scooped him up by the back of his shirt. 

“Fenton.” A familiar voice gently scolded, “You’re gonna have to explain something to me.” 

That won’t be the last time he says that. 

“I don’t mean to be that guy I really don’t but-- a simple ‘hey you’ can suffice.” Danny struggled before giving up-- what good were the ghost powers when you couldn’t bust them out in public? The absolute downside of being a superhero, at least he didn’t feel as much pain as he used to. He kicked his legs futilely, trying to release his shirt, “...Really does the work for you, yknow?“

Kwan turned him around, “Yeah, but when I do this, I can skip a rep of curls.” 

“You’re gonna curl me?” Danny narrowed his eyes.

“Hey Danny, do you need any help?” Sam batted her eyelashes a little-- yes, Sam could do that-- Kwan had a secret thing for goths. Another unfortunate leftover for Ember Mclain's tour through Amity Park. 

Kwan did look at her; he then brushed his own cheek. Pantomiming, that she should do the same. He asked with sincerity, “Do you have something in your eye?” 

Welp, she tried. Sam never said she was any good at it. Danny’s gonna die twice, and she couldn’t flirt him out of that situation. Bummer. It would be a tasteful funeral for sure. 

Pointing with his head, Danny insisted, “I’ll catch up with you guys later.” 

Tucker gave them both the finger guns before tailing after Sam. Always a class act. Danny crossed his arms over his chest, “To what do I owe the pleasure of being your dumbbell, Kwan?” 

“Look, I don’t know what you did, but I know you’re behind it,” the linebacker spoke curtly, 

The ghost boy cocked his head, “you’re not really giving me a lot of details to work with here.” 

“Dash has been out of his gourd; he’s frazzled. Can’t think straight.” 

Okay, Fenton did see some humor peaking out amidst all the grey amorphous clouds of stress. He snickered and chuckled-- because what else could he do? He always got a tad nervous when people grilled him, and that anxiety often manifested itself as laughter.

“What’d I say?” Byun furrowed his brow. Setting Fenton down, somewhat concerned that he was cutting off the oxygen to the kid’s brain. 

“You wouldn’t get it,” Fenton said, “I’m sure Dash is just fine, okay? He seems just freakin’ peachy from where I’m standing.” 

“...You always set him off.” Kwan accused, trying to intimidate Fenton physically. Staring daggers through him. He pushed Danny’s shoulder back, “Whenever you correct him in class, you show him up. You chip away at his-- his--” 

“Self-esteem?” The ghost boy was getting a little impatient. 

Deflating, Kwan ran a hand through his hair, “Yeah, that! But like… if you could lay off of him for a bit until after the season is over...?” 

Danny raised his eyebrows; he couldn’t actually believe he was having this conversation. Seriously. 

“You’re asking me not to ‘pick on’ Dash?”

Kwan nodded, his lips curling inward-- he was pained. 

“For the good of the crows,” Danny snarkily dismissed.


	21. I have my books and poetry to protect me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the alternate title for this chapter was, "two silences shared." but I felt a paraphrased Simon and Garfunkel lyric made more sense. Also, Lancer is gay and a drag queen, no I don't have any reason for this, but you can pry it from my cold dead fingers.

The Ghostwriter's manor was how he remembered it. Cluttered and smelled like spiders. There was debris floating off of his lawn, orbiting his house like its own planet. Forever stuck in the green sky of the ghost zone. It was a sad little moon on the farthest edge neighboring an unnavigable abyss. Suppose when a "no solicitors" sign couldn't do the job… 

Danny anchored the speeder to an antique jet black horse hitch. A lion with an open maw twisted into a menacing scowl sat on the hitch’s top.

The Phantom smirked, tightening the knot, "Charming." 

Staring at the greyed crunchy grass, Danny popped his knuckles. He hated house calls. 

The manor was impossibly tall, to begin with. But it had towers towards the front overlooking the front yard and two toward the west of the house that gave the young ghost vertigo. The windows were covered in green cobwebs and showed their age through the hair-thin cracks around the edges. Ill-fated ivy climbed the beams. The building was the dictionary definition of condemned. The ghost boy worried that if someone were to breathe too hard, the structure would collapse in a heap of rotten, moldy wood. Dilapidated, it was hard to imagine that one point someone cared enough to upkeep it. It could have been all the home remodeling shows that his dad watched, but Danny thought the house's skeleton was at least eye-catching. A huge wrap-around porch with a swing-- it was Colonial style with Gothic twists. It was a house with 'character' as Mr Fenton would put it. Danny just thought it was probably big enough to have an inground pool.

Hovering to the door, he pressed his finger on the bell. Several church-like tolls came from the inner workings of the mansion. However, the space between each tone was so long and incomplete any possible song it was supposed to mimic was gone. There was no activity to be heard behind the door. 

There was a rat in the window of the living room staring at Danny on the porch. Packages were resting against the door, so many that Danny thought Ghostwriter might have trouble getting onto the stoop. He nudged the mail away with his foot. Another few minutes passed; he went to try the bell again but then noticed the wall was swamped with different buttons for various doorbells. Without much thought, he pushed another with his thumb. 

Sirens from numerous emergency vehicles from eras and countries sounded all at once in a cacophony-- Danny let go in an instant. 

The rat inside the house appeared unphased as it continued to chew the foam stuffing inside the Ghostwriter's sunroom couch. Oh, come on! 

Very little sleep translated to very little patience. Being generous with your time does that to you. Danny wasn't exactly a collector like Ghostwriter. The phantom picked the next doorbell-- a loud modern apartment buzzer. 

… 

Nothing. 

Fine. Have it your way, Ghostwriter. 

Danny hit the wall of bells with an open palm. He then repeatedly smacked and pulled his hand across all the buttons he could manage. Half-finished symphonies, alarms, bird calls, wind instruments-- noises that didn’t even have an earthly name. 

Shielding his ears, the phantom may have jumped the gun on this one. The house rattled and groaned, swaying slightly. After all the chimes and tones settled back into silence… it was the absence of the noise that made Danny realize aside from the constant sound of rain falling backward… The Ghost Zone sounded like a funeral. 

Despite raising literal hell on the doorstep. No one had let him inside yet. It wasn't like Ghostwriter actually has a job. 

Gradually removing his hands from his head, Danny lifted his heel to break in. 

There was another carved lion with an evil sneer decorating the front door. In its clawed hand, it held a door knocker. He gave three raps of the dusty knocker. 

The door was suddenly ripped away from his fist. To reveal Ember McClain of all demons. She opened the front entrance, "What?" 

"You!" Danny reflexively got into a defense position.

"Yeah, it's me--" She responded to the accusatory tone as if it was an obvious statement. Ember didn't have her guitar around her shoulders. Clearly, she just answered the door, "What do you want?"

Danny still had his fists clenched-- he definitely wanted to fight her regardless of her intentions. His gloves squeaked under the pressure, "I thought Ghostwriter lived here." 

"He's not taking visitors; he never does." Ember didn't care for the posturing. She barely remembered what she had for breakfast. If she remembered every time someone vowed vengeance against her, McClain would hardly get anything done. She barred her arm in front of the door, "could I take a message?" 

"He's the one who emailed me and blew up my computer. He's the one who wanted my attention." The Phantom's eyes and chest began to glow with a crackling sizzle. He was done being nice. 

Rolling her eyes at the ghost boy’s temper tantrum, McClain leaned down. Speaking slowly-- to make sure Danny heard her, "Ghostwriter doesn't take visitors." 

"It's not so much as visitation as I'm going to kidnap him."

"You and what army, sparkles?" 

Another ghost from inside the house emerged, but once again, not the Ghostwriter. The aura belonging to that of a bratty child-- Youngblood. His energy reminded Danny of winter's first snow day when he could skip school because the roads were slick with ice. It was the kind of chill that snuck up on you. The kind that could flip a school bus on its side. It was mischievous-- He was mischievous.

The littlest ghost ran up behind Ember, tugging on her belt, "Hey! There's another Little John part, and you promised you'd be the best-est Little John." 

She sighed, "I think I'm gonna have to take you back to Walker's early; the buzzkill is here." 

Youngblood, in his tattered Robin hood costume-- notched an arrow in his toy bow and fired. Impeccable aim, Danny popped the suction cup arrow from his forehead and disintegrated it in his hand.

"Could I just see Ghostwriter," as much as it killed him to say it, Danny added, "please?"

Ember picked up Youngblood, placing the boy on her hip. She backed away, allowing the Phantom in. However, before Danny could charge up the steps, Ember caught him by the wrist-- it took all of his restraint not to swing-- 

"You can't just barge in…" She smirked, "You have to do a couple of things first." 

Danny snatched his arm back and asked, "Like…?"

Youngblood bounced excitedly, “You have to water the lions, but you can’t step on the black tiles in the kitchen to get to the garden. They’re lava that burns your flesh off the bone!” 

“Real or imaginary lava?” The phantom was skeptical, but you couldn’t be too careful in the ghost zone. 

“It's very real!” Youngblood exclaimed. 

Ember mouthed, ‘imaginary.’ 

“Is there anything else I should know?” Danny used his ‘little kid’ voice, that voice you use when talking to the exceptionally young or the exceptionally braindead. 

The littlest ghost continued to rattle off, “After the lions have been fed, you’re then supposed to come back in and avoid the white tiles. The white tiles will shock you. The lions switch them while your back is turned. Then before you go up the stairs, you have to knock on the kitchen door frame seven times.” Young emphasized, “Seven times exactly.” 

“Okay,” Danny rather not waste his time dancing around a hoarder’s kitchen, “What if I didn’t do any of that?” 

Ember sashayed into the sunroom, “Ghostwriter will know if you don't do it, he’ll lock himself in his panic room, and you’ll never get a chance to talk to him.” 

“He’s not even down here!” Danny complained. 

“It’s a trust thing,” Ember put Youngblood on the couch after grasping the rat by its tail and moving it to the window. She asked the ghost child, “Did you pick out the books you wanted to borrow?” 

“Yep, Robinson Crusoe-- and the-- the…” Young picked up a red book with an illustration on the cover of a man being tied down by smaller men, “This one.” 

The sound of bones clacking together was something no one should hear. A fox skeleton appeared from under the couch with Youngblood’s shoes in its yellowed, chipped teeth. The fox took a moment to read the cursive writing on the novel, “Gulliver's travels, sir.” 

Ember rubbed the fox’s forehead, tutting, “Okay-- did you put the books you borrowed last time away?” 

The Phantom cleared his throat, “Hello? Did you suddenly forget that I was here?” 

“Yes.” McClain retorted, “We have obligations outside of you, sparkles. Walker asked me to babysit his kid, and trust me. Walker is a lot scarier than you showing your fangs and hissing.” 

Youngblood then produced some books from his rucksack, transferring them to Ember. She walked over to a hole in the wall next to the staircase-- a dumbwaiter. Lifting the metal door, Ember slid the books in and yanked the rope up to the mansion's next floor. 

Danny didn’t have fangs. Unconsciously he jabbed his canines into his thumb to see if they had gotten any sharper-- 

“Talk to him or don’t, I don’t care, but that’s the only way,” 

The Phantom, with his reservations in tow, landed on the squeaky floor. Marching into the kitchen, he stood where the tile met the wood of the sunroom, “So white tiles the first go through and then…” 

Youngblood from the chair clarified, “No, no-- it's the black tiles first, and then the white tiles.” 

He placed one foot on the black tile-- 

**_“Fshwooo!!”_ **

“You’re dead!” the ghost child cried teasingly, “You have to do it over.” 

“You said the black tiles were first!” Danny snapped his head back.

“To avoid, dummy!” 

Rubbing her temples, Ember was gathering Youngblood’s things with the help of his fox, “And this is why my mom drank.” 

Correcting his path, the Phantom went from white tile to white tile. In utter disbelief that this was how his afternoon was playing out. It wasn’t a typical checkerboard pattern. The tiles did start that way but were haphazardly caulked into the floor. It was hard to tell if the floor was white with black accents or white with black flourishes. Danny had to lean on the counter and stretch his leg out as far that his form would allow in the ghost zone. This was hard on the hamstrings. Danny’s voice echoed off the floor, “Is this absolutely necessary?” 

Ember kind of wanted to see how this would play out. So she said nothing while Youngblood giggled to himself. 

* * *

There was a knock at Lancer’s classroom door. The man in question was grading papers from his near one-hundred-and-fourteen students. He was in the middle of a thought about if Lancer kept seeing more Bs, his students might be getting a little too comfortable with the mediocrity. How was he supposed to get more budget towards the floundering drama program if all he can get is a handful of As out of a hundred students? Lancer traced his wrinkles around his mouth, “Come in.” 

“Hey Lancer,” Baxter greeted, “is it cool if I come in and read before practice?” 

Lancer took off his reading glasses, “I’m not opposed to that.” 

It wasn’t a secret that Baxter was one of his favorites. At least it wasn’t a well-kept secret. Simply because Dash had a strong eye for literary analysis, and very often, Lancer could retire his ‘hip-tionary: the dictionary for the uncool.’ Lancer could be his surly cynical self, and Baxter would be grateful for the company. Dash was a very timid learner; he approached his education not with an adept and dexterous hand but reluctance. He had a great mind for academics that was being squandered by his own self-doubt. Lancer saw himself reflected in the eyes of his students. His kids. Dash was no exception. 

It was still, aside from the occasional rustling of the pages. 

“Mr Baxter, I would like to congratulate you early for having the highest grade on yesterday’s assignment.” 

Dash looked up from his book, surprised, “Oh, really?” 

It was the kind of modesty Lancer didn’t expect from Dash’s type. Dash was horrifically self-deprecating, even among friends. As an adult who could only hear snippets-- Lancer had wondered where the boy’s head was at these days. No student actually looked forward to sitting in their teacher’s classroom to read. It was usually the last place they ended up before the counselor’s office. Suppose Casper High could ever manage to keep one. By all accounts, it didn’t make any sense. Dash had friends, but no stability, no foundation. He floated through things like… well, Lancer wanted to say ‘like a ghost,’ but he had met ghosts with more self-confidence. No, the teacher thought about ghosts in the poetic sense. The literary sense. Something almost alive. Something that almost was a person. 

“Really.” Lancer turned to his computer to pigeon type the next name on his list. He had a relaxed smile, which Dash had mimicked. 

Before opening his paperback again, the football player piped up, “Er-- Lancer I was thinking about… I was thinking about participating in the play.” 

“Of course,” Lancer tried to navigate the interface of the computer, his attention was admittedly split, “I suppose I don’t even need your credentials since you were the head stagehand for last year’s and the fall musical. Son, you really brought those sets to life--” 

“No, I-- I mean, I wanna audition,” Baxter interrupted.

The teacher shut off his computer, as this definitely needed all of his focus, “Really?” 

“Well, it's only a one-act, right? It might be the last one we ever put on.” Dash bounced his knee anxiously, “So, I-- I dunno, I… I want to try out.” 

“That’s very noble of you, Dash.” He had this weird feeling. It was pride-- pride or meatsweat from the pork rinds in his desk. This was his dead poet’s society moment. If he was younger and sure his black jeans wouldn’t split, he would stand on his desk and give a triumphant cheer. Lancer had made some kind of impact. Instead, his grin crawled further up his face-- and he felt a second wind of motivation. Maybe he could solve world hunger next. Mr Lancer couldn’t help but take credit for Dash’s sudden interest in the performing arts, but something else had to be the cause for this, “What-- what inspired the interest if you don’t mind my asking?” 

Dash gave a vague shrug, “I guess I wanted to try something new? I feel like I’ve been kind of playing it safe. Not safe as in-- like the last concussion, I got kind of put in perspective that I’m not really built for the professional league. It's-- sports are the only thing I’ve ever known…” 

“Exploring your options is good.” 

“I’ve also met this person who’s inspired me to try.” 

Lancer joked, “it's not me, is it?” 

“er-- no,” Dash finally cracked a laugh, “but you’ve been a big help, teach.” 

Suppose that’s all he’d get, but Mr Lancer was still glad to be at least validated that he was doing something to mold the minds of the future. 

“I had been, like, terrified to talk to this guy, right--? But we could have been talking a lot sooner if I had just-- done something about it? It was such a sucky feeling. That I had been missing out on something.” 

“You were terrified to talk to someone…” Lancer stroked his beard in thought, “and you want to try out for the play, which is talking to a lot of people-- on stage. Repeatedly. For several nights. Consecutively.” 

Dash raked his fingers across his new jacket patch. The change in texture brought him some comfort, “It’ll be different. The main thing that stopped me was because I care way too much about what people think, yknow?” 

“I don’t think this is it for me. I don’t think that… I’m just a jock.” 

Lancer wore reading glasses on a chain and a fanny pack on the weekends-- this was a man who stopped giving a fuck a long time ago. Lancer moonlighted as a Master of Ceremonies at a burlesque bar as a drag queen with the title ‘Ms Interobang’ for only seventy dollars in tips. He stopped caring ages ago. But kids? His students… they cared so infinitely. To the point where it hurt more to care than to be the person, you were meant to be. It became an obstacle. It was the best and worst quality that they had. He never believed that his students didn’t care. There was so much self-inflicted pressure that came from caring. If every teenager thought the world was watching them? It was no wonder they acted out. It was these years with all the hormones and shame where the trauma usually starts, or for some, it added on. 

“Forgive me for saying so, Mr Baxter,” The English teacher hunched over his desk, causing Dash to lean closer from his third-row chair. Lancer raised an eyebrow, “Life is too short to give a damn.” 

Dash staggered through a nod. He didn’t think Lancer could swear for his blood pressure or whatever. He had lost the page he was on and his train of thought.

The room was quiet enough to hear the wheels of the desk drawer roll against the metal rail. Lancer pulled out a neon yellow bag with a pink pig snout logo, “Care for a pork rind?” 

“Uh…” the football player gathered his paperbacks, “I’m good, thanks for the talk.” 


	22. l'appel du vide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of self-harm, murder, substance abuse, isolation,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this long lengthy tangent of a chapter is going somewhere! I wanted to sort of retcon and expand my thoughts about the world-building in Danny Phantom. Specifically about the blood blossoms and how the ghosts behave and interact with each other. I just happened to get extremely burnt out while writing the ending. I managed to get vaccinated this week, and I also managed to leave my house for the first time in months. It was a very moving experience, which I hope to capture further with Ghostwriter. As someone who struggles with OCD symptoms especially with repeating comforting habits like counting and stepping in patterns, I hope it doesn't come off as annoying to read as it is to live through. With all that out of the way, I'm gonna rest my arm. stay safe everyone.

The garden wasn't any better off than the front yard. Though there was some settlement of life, what little there was in the Ghost Zone. Time flowed differently here. To say that it stopped completely was inaccurate. At first, Danny, to make himself comfortable hurting them. He had to convince himself that they weren't people. And it's true. They weren't real people. At least not to Danny and his version of reality. Ember McClain had no palpable existence in Amity Park aside from being a one-hit-wonder. Even her real name Ashleigh “Ashe” Campbell-Willams, turned up no paper trail in Amity Park. Skulker felt out of place too-- as if he was reaped from the future. He spoke about events that just happened with the nostalgic vigor of a scholar. There was also the fact that he was a four inch tall glob of ecto-soul energy. If that’s the future evolution of humanity, the less said about that, the better. None of the Ghost Zone residents had anything in common, in terms of death at least. Danny seeing the protectiveness Ember had over Ghostwriter-- that came from experience. That came from something resembling fondness. 

She was another case of someone so young and bursting with energy held down by the slow and cruel shackles of the Ghost Zone. Heaven existed as a reward, Hell was for everyone else. No one could fathom what the Ghost Zone was for. Or even if it was divine in nature.

It had this siren allure that called the uninitiated in-- further and further. It called to all of mankind. 

When you’re peering over the edge of a bridge with the uncharacteristic unspoken urge to throw all your worth into the depths below. 

Curiosity was genetic. Perhaps that was the burden of being a Fenton. To be hoisted with their own petard. Jack lost his best friend, Maddie lost most of her credit as an engineer, and Danny… that was obvious. Hubris was the family business.

The grass was dark blue and dewy. Danny scanned around for the “lions” Youngblood was yammering on about. Topiaries. Lion-shaped topiaries, with crimson flowers blooming in the mane. To match the horse hitch and door knocker. He was sensing a theme. 

A rusty watering can sat on a crowded flowerbed. This was not the weirdest thing he’s done to appease a ghost, but he couldn’t see past how every minute he spent here-- Johnny had another opportunity to do some stupid stunt. The water in the can sloshed around. 

“Why, lay me dead! Good afternoon, daddy-o.” Sidney Pointdexter was drinking tea in the gazebo between the hedges, with an open notebook, a pencil tucked behind his ear. Studious and sepia as always. He gave a small wave from the rail he was leaning. 

Another familiar face. It was a nonstop party at Ghostwriter’s manor. Danny flatly returned, “Afternoon.” 

Sidney didn’t seem surprised to see Danny there. Sidney, despite being perma-stuck in the nineteen-fifties he possessed a clumsy optimism for ‘new’ things. Sidney was a good kid, who believed in justice over all else. Having been the doormat when he was living, Sidney used his ‘gift’ as an equalizer. He had guts-- or more appropriately ‘moxie.’ 

The Phantom had a place in the ghost zone, just like Pointdexter. He viewed him as a friend. It wasn’t reciprocal. That was okay. It didn’t stop Pointdexter from treating Danny like everyone else in the Ghost Zone.

Sidney pointed to the red flowers with the eraser end of his pencil, “You here to study the blood blossoms too?” 

“Uh, no,” Danny closed his eyes, annoyed, having to repeat himself, “I wanted to talk to Ghostwriter… and now I’m talking to you.” 

The retro-turbo-geek chortled, “He’s a tricky one. It took me a while to figure out the fertilizer to water ratio.” 

“There's more steps?” 

“Don’t feel too bad if you don’t get it right on the first try,” Dexter said this as if failure was inevitable, “Sure is a scorcher today huh?” 

Danny couldn’t tell the difference-- or what exactly Sidney was looking at. There were no clouds; there was no sun in the ghost zone. Dropping the weighty watering can on the ground, the Phantom had it about up to here with how weird his adversaries were acting. He at least expected the lion hedges to come to life by now and chase him a bit. Danny would say some witty one-liners about pesticide, and then he’d force the Ghostwriter to cooperate while trying to fight off Ember. This was a lot slower for one, not to mention boring. Hands on his hips, he exclaimed, “I don’t have time for this!” 

“I wouldn’t recommend your usual method,” Sidney warned, “It wouldn’t improve your reputation here. No sir, no how-- they think you’re a freak.” 

“I’m not-- what gives you the-- he’s the fr--” He realized he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Dexter only ever attacked Danny because he thought he was a bully. A claim that gained more weight the more he thought about it, “Shut up.” 

“Hey! I’m just trying to help. Ghostwriter is a wet rag most days; he’s got a-- one of those--” Sidney gestured around his own head, “Brain neuroses.” 

“Yeah-- yeah, I got it; he’s a tortured artist.” The Phantom raised both his arms up, declaring, “Truly a visionary! My issues pale in comparison to one such as he!” 

“Do you think he asked to be like that?” 

Grasping the can by the handle, the Phantom sighed several blue wisps out of his nose-- causing his body to rack with angry shivers-- “How many drops of fertilizer?” 

Pointdexter floated over, referring to his notes. Before giving Danny the correct measurements, Sidney mentioned that Blood Blossoms would be beneficial to his human friends. They were highly irritant to spirits-- irritant, toxic-- same thing. Sidney had read in one of Ghostwriter’s tomes that pilgrims grew these red flowers to ward away ghosts and other unsightly things. They were the only flower that could grow in the Ghost Zone’s harsh biome. It was funny. It was hilarious to Dexter because the only living thing, and the ghosts couldn't interact with it.

The blossoms were clearly in the rose family, but roses were historically among the most sensitive flowers to grow. They were very discrete in that regard. Pointdexter had managed to extract some seeds with some minor burns. He was trying to write his midterm paper around environmental sustainability in the Ghost Zone. His teachers thought it was a terrible subject to base his grades on.

After venting that the only safe place Sidney could study the flowers was in Ghostwriter’s garden, he then offered, “Would you like to take some samples to see how they fair out there?” 

“If I had time--” Danny sought to excuse himself into getting roped into something else he didn't have the sense to say 'no' to.

“I suppose that’s somethin’ I don’t miss about being alive. Never late for nothing anymore.” Sidney took out a box cutter from his breast pocket and made an incision along his palm. Green glowing blood seeped through his grey skin and into the watering can--

All Danny saw was the glint of the knife. Before the Phantom could stop Sidney he faltered out, "Hey--!" 

Since ghosts don't feel pain until they needed to, Pointdexter took a moment to register that Danny didn't do this in his neck of the woods, "Aw, don't worry your pretty boy head about it. Blood Blossoms respond best to water mixed with ectoplasm. I suppose that's what makes them do what they need to do."

"Isn't that kinda extreme?" 

"Eh, so is living in a world without flowers." 

* * *

The lions had been fed. 

The blood blossoms were in pre-bloom. The buds weren't unfurled yet. They were still dangerous. The thorns were obvious, but Danny accidentally grazed a petal with his fingers. He felt a weird tingling sensation which eventually evolved into this red dry patch of skin that spread to his wrist. Sidney mentioned that he only had this opportunity to study them up close before their pollen spread rendered the garden inhabitable in a few weeks. Ghostwriter would then seal up his back door and windows, and he wouldn't allow visitors until the winter when the flowers would wilt. 

Danny had come back in on the correct tiles this time. He knocked on the archway seven times exactly. No more, no less. 

Ember yawned, “were you expecting a standing ovation?” 

“I'm talking to the Ghostwriter now, or do you guys have some laundry that needs my attention?” 

“He’s upstairs, the last door on the left. Seven knocks.” 

“I’m beginning to think he’s a fan of seven,” Danny uttered, kicking himself from the floor and speeding up the stairs. Agitating the dust and stray trash. 

Ember fixed her part that had been blown back. Youngblood, meanwhile, stuck his lip out, “how come he gets to fly in the house?” 

* * *

Skidding to a halt in front of the first door that looked clean, Danny banged at it fervently. 

"Hello, Daniel."

"Ghostwriter! I'm here to help! Let me in!" When did Danny become the parent to this grown man?

A typewriter bell chimed, then the rough sound of the paper rack being pushed back into place. The Ghostwriter spoke with calm dictation, "you want to use me as bait." 

The Phantom backed away, wondering how transparent he was being, "No-- I wouldn't do that--"

"Don't lie to me." There was another chime.

"You want to use me as bait. Suppose if I was writing this story, that's what I'd do. Add some more tension, give me a character arc-- give me redemption." Ghostwriter stated, "It's very all logical." 

"Then recontextualize the protagonist as being morally ambiguous. 'How could Danny use live bait?' 'If the means justify the ends, what difference would it make?' 'How can you expect a child to make such important decisions?' It's textbook postmodernism." 

Forcing his weight onto the door, Danny tried twisting the knob. Uncomfortable with Ghostwriter’s cavalier callousness towards him, "This isn't one of your stories." 

"No. You're right."

The paper rack dragged across the typewriter once more, "if it were one of my stories, you would have stayed dead. I wouldn't wish what you had on my greatest enemy." 

"Ghostwriter! D--dammit! Stop being cryptic!" Danny slammed his hand against the door one more time, causing it to open and Danny to stagger into the office. Landing face first on a dusty Godawful purple rug. 

The Ghostwriter had his chin on his desk, staring at the door, the dense typewriter in his lap pinning him to his chair. He had been typing without thought, just because the sound brought him some sense of relief. Ghostwriter had barely glanced up, "Seven." 

"Everyone's a comedian these days." Danny brushed himself off. 

The Ghostwriter stared off, barely registering that Danny was in the same room, “Hello Daniel.” 

"... are you okay?" 

"It's been six days since I could write." 

The Phantom thought aloud, "the same amount of time Johnny's been missing." 

"Five days in here might as well be years. Everything moves at a molasses pace…" the sounded chime from under the desk.

"It's days like this. I wish the Ghost Zone didn't have prohibition." 

"Huh?" 

"I can't get drunk." The Ghostwriter hefted his typewriter onto the desk, revealing that the pages were illegible gibberish. He had been typing on the same page for so long that it became solid black lines. The letters had all been removed by force. He sat up, "when I can't write my problems away, I would drink. Now I can't do either." 

Danny stepped closer working to diffuse the static surrounding the ghost, "Just because Johnny stole a couple of keys, that doesn't mean--" 

"Johnny didn't just steal a couple of--!" He rose so fast that his chair clattered to the ground, "he stole my freedom." 

"I can't leave my manor. I can't-- everyone knows-- I can't… I can never leave. The only place I can go is into these… places in my head. In my writing, I can see these memories, these hazy blurry pictures. I can reach those memories on my own, but writing them… that's what makes it tangible. It makes it real. I can imagine the sun on my face, and I don't feel so…"

"Cold?" Danny took another step forward. 

"Exactly…" The ghostwriter covered his mouth with his hands, "Danny, it is my last wish to burden you, but I am afraid the reason why Johnny is acting in discord is… is me." 

The Phantom gestured for him to continue.

"I had written a piece about his death. Which… is still something of a sensitive subject for him." 

Danny had to bite his tongue. It took everything in him to refrain him from saying, 'gee, I wonder why.'

"It was purely unintentional," the ghostwriter lamented, "but it reawakened something in him. Since he confronted me, I haven't seen him. But I feel him. Yes, my keys are missing, but I've memorized their placement-- it's the words that won't come out. I've been silenced. It's gotten worse with each passing day."

"Have you tried apologizing?" Danny scanned around the room for any object of Johnny’s that could be causing a disturbance. He wasn't a neat freak, but he was bewildered with how even a dead man could own so much stuff and still not use it. It would have taken Danny with the addition of Jazz, Tucker, and Sam to sort through the mess. 

The Ghostwriter howled, "Apologize? Even if he gave me the chance…! This isn't the first time Johnny has tormented me." 

"... this is gonna sound like a bit of-- uh…" Danny scratched his knuckles, "uh shock to you, but have you considered that you were rude to Johnny before?" 

The Ghostwriter rolled his eyes. Then looked at the ceiling, considering-- recalling-- finally, after a second's worth of thought , "No. I am the indisputable victim here. I demand justice at once." 

"Oh for the love of--" snatching the author by his scraggly goatee, "Ghostwriter, I'm a superhero. Not your therapist. You're gonna make nice with Johnny so he can stop breaking my town." 

"It's always about you and that damn town, isn't it, Daniel?"

* * *

Ember spun a broom around, clashing it with Youngblood's wooden sword. They exchanged quips, though quickly Young became upset with the height advantage McClain had on him. He latched himself to her ankles, causing her to tumble over.

"That was pretty underhanded, kid. I like your style." The pop ghost noogied him with her elbow. 

Sidney entered in from the garden, stepping only the black tiles, "has Danny left yet? I know he said he was busy, but by golly, I'm gonna have to insist that he bring back--"

"Are you still yammerin' about those weeds?" Ember called from the wood floor, basking in what little light existed in the Ghost Zone coming through the window.

Youngblood gave a fake cough, "dork!" 

"This is kind of a big deal--! The Blood Blossoms could help make our home a-- a better place… maybe then we won't fight each other as much." 

"Yeah, a poison weed. Truly you're on your way to a Nobel." 

"Why would we ever try to make the ghost zone better when we could just take the human world?" No one was talking to Youngblood, but he needed to assert his opinion as children often liked to do when being left out of a conversation.

"Like fun you are, little man!” Pointdexter couldn’t believe how heartless even the children could be in this plane. He reminded them, “The humans are our neighbors." 

"Look, Mister Rogers, I don't want to play the 'tragic backstory' card, but historically you haven't had the best record with your little ‘science experiments.’” She whispered for the sake of the child in the room, “I think you have a higher body count than Skulker, and that's saying something." 

It was a low blow. Sidney never did forgive himself for causing a chemical leak that killed his entire graduating class. The papers said it was an accident. He wanted to believe that it was. So badly, he wanted to give himself the benefit of the doubt. Sidney didn't think that the gas would spread through the vents. Maybe he deserved to be here in this next-to-hellish wasteland. Sidney at least wanted to try to make it right. She wasn’t insulting him; she was honest. It's who Ember was. She tried to give people their truths. Sidney had gotten used to it, "... I admit, it's a long shot, but if we don't try to bring our community together. Then… what would we have died for? What was any of this for?"

“Life’s a b-i-t-c-h, then you die.” McClain concluded with a hum, “it's better you learn that now, instead of wasting your time.” 

Young leaned towards his assistant, “I know what that spells.” 

His assistant placed a skeletal paw on the ghost child’s forehead, “No, you don’t.” 

Danny phased through the ceiling in the middle of the conversation, his shoulders slouched. 

“So,” Ember snickered, “How’s the kidnapping going?” 

“Kidnapping?!” Sidney screeched before rolling up his sleeves, “Okay, buster brown, you better start explaining to me just what the big picture is here!” 

The c-list villain reunion was turning against him; he raised a surrendering hand, “Johnny has been terrorizing Amity Park. From the sounds of it, he’s just getting started. Ghostwriter wrote something about Johnny, and now he won’t apologize. I thought maybe if I could just get them to talk it out--” 

“Fat load o' good  that’ll do.” Pointdexter snorted, “Neither one of them are the talkin’ sort.” 

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Danny sighed. 

Ember meanwhile, knew that this would be the outcome. The Ghostwriter hadn’t left the Ghost Zone since he manifested. Even then, he had completely isolated himself five years before his death. Not only were his baser ghost powers extremely fragile, but he was fragile too. Ember didn’t feel this way about most people, but she wanted to wrap that man up in bubble wrap and tuck him away on the highest shelf. Yeah, he was a giant pain in her neck, but-- he treated her like someone who mattered. He didn’t think her dreams of being a musician were impossible. McClain wished that she could make him feel the same way. That nothing was impossible. The pop ghost shrugged, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t summer camp, sparkles. The Ghost Zone doesn’t do well with that new age conflict resolution bull--” 

“Sidney! Ember!” a voice bellowed from atop the stairs, “I’m leaving you the house for a few days. I’m sure you can manage it.” 

The ghostwriter had donned his navy cardigan and wobbly found his footing like an undead baby deer. He was out of practice-- having forgotten his routine of knocks, counting, timing that made the stairs feel safer. It had been so long since he had seen proof of a world outside his office.

Ember shoved the others out of her way, “Stephen, are you serious?” 

“As the plague.” His two feet hit the creaky wooden floor, “don’t be too disappointed when I come back with my tail between my legs. I am a coward, after all.” 

“I always thought he’d be taller,” Youngblood holstered his bow after seeing that it wasn’t a foe. 


End file.
